


Topsy Turvy, Switchy Witchy, Bottoms Up Buttercup!

by alephthirteen



Series: The Topsy-Verse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, BAMF Fleur Delacour, BAMF Hermione, F/F, Harry ships it, Harry's Power is Meaning Well, Hogwarts is Still Dangerous, Magical Sports, Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Muggle/Wizard Relations, Ron's Power is Getting the Hint, Schemer Hermione, Shapeshifting, That Place Would Get Shut Down Faster Than Staff Could Flee the Aurors, Triwizard Tournament, Trying to Pretend its a School Though, mixed race Hermione, seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27940748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alephthirteen/pseuds/alephthirteen
Summary: Third year was a mess.Side effects of being friends with The Boy Who Lived and The Boy Who Means Well and Has No Clue.  Dementors, murders, nearly-murders by her best friend.  Ginny Weasley shuffling through the year, a fireball of a girl turned into a shadow of herself,  expecting basilisks and poisoned diaries around every corner.Fourth year, they say, is easier.  Students focus on their beasts, their heats and their ruts and professors don't kid themselves that they can override hormone and instinct.It's hell being a skinny muggle-born who hasn't connected with her beast yet.  If it doesn't happen by the end of the year, it's not happening.  Harry and Ron won't abandon her so either way, fourth year will be easy.=====Beauxbatons is different in her sixth year.  She started early, like most veela students.  Her figure and her allure came in over a long, rainy summer.  While the other girls focus on their beasts and their decorum classes, Fleur fills her days with kissing, tending the family's alliances with veela and humans, and gossip.  Her nights are haunted by dreams of beastly, panting, marvelous sex.Her mate is calling.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger
Series: The Topsy-Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2186727
Comments: 196
Kudos: 612





	1. Material Not Suitable for the Royal Mail Service

**Author's Note:**

> Harry Potter is a great fandom to write in, because it's so whimsical but you can also play with darker stuff and bring in all manner of occult, pagan, and political themes. 
> 
> So here's a Fleurmione fic where over half of all magical students have a connection to an animal, a sizable minority can shapeshift into it, and the pecking order is not only pureblood and muggleborn, its whether you shapeshift into a bull or a fieldmouse.

**Ron**

The only thing remarkable about his Hogwarts letter is Errol flying straight and not hitting the window. His mother opens it with a flourish of her wand, herds them all downstairs and reads it aloud. His friends are buzzing about Harry Potter being in his class, the Boy Who Lived but also, the boy who disappeared. A mystery. Ginny has been on about it all year, wondering if he's as kind as he is handsome. She's so happy imagining it that not even Fred and George tease her.

His father nearly blows up the garage trying to build a bicycle that can be ridden while you apparate.

Charlie brings home a dragonet that got into the popcorn machine at a muggle movie theater.

It's a Thursday.

* * *

**Harry**

He should have a thousand questions for this giant, scruffy man in a trenchcoat and motorcycle goggles. He could start with the basics.

_How did you find me?_

_Are all wizards this tall?_

_How can I possibly pay for this?_

_Why aren't you allowed to do magic?_

There's the questions not worth asking.

_Will the Dursleys take me back?_

_Are there orphanages for magical children?_

There's the questions he's scared of.

_Will I have friends?_

_Will me being The Boy Who Lived make it hard to get classwork done?_

_What is The Boy Who Lived rubbish about anyway?_

Someone brought him a birthday cake and protected him and Hagrid said he knew his parents. That's what matters. So Harry doesn't ask. He listens.

* * *

**Hermione**

Usually, her father gets the mail but today, Hermione needs to beat him to it. All summer, she's been having dreams. Dreams about kissing and holding hands and she wakes up sweaty, feeling like she's on fire. Her mum and dad already told her about sex, almost two years ago. As usual, her mom was thinking about numbers. Said that even though she wasn't quite ten, it happened early to some girls and she didn't want Hermione to be scared if it happened to her in a year or two.

It was the worst ten minutes of her life.

Sex dreams aren't odd. In fact, they are part of what her mother warned her about.

The problem is that the shadowy person in the dreams is soft, and the hair long and silky, and she wakes up touching a spot on her neck that she thinks has lipstick on it.

She's having a dream over and over about kissing a _girl_ and the only people she could ask are the odd ladies on the farm outside of town who teach in the art college. Visiting them would mean getting spotted but her parents send them a Christmas card every year and--how forgetful--Hermione forgot to write the thank you note until well after Easter. 

She used up two pens writing it and ended up using an envelope of her mum's from the medical college to mail it. She got back a five word letter and a photo.

_'Not alone. Tell you more soon'_ and a picture of two hands, both women's hands, curled around a cup of coffee. Silver wedding rings on each.

Her parents simply cannot see the next letter, so she's waiting by the front door and catching the mail before it falls from the slot to the carpet.

"Anything important, squirrel?" Her dad calls. She thought it was a terrible nickname, until she remembered how much her dad loves watching squirrels in the backyard and how he and mum met because he was on a bench drawing a squirrel for biology class and she tripped on his legs.

"Bill, ad, bill, sweepstakes, utter rubbish..."

She puts the Daily Mail down by the front door, where the next time someone steps in, the picture of Margret Thatcher's son will get a faceful of mud.

There's a letter postmarked from outside town that smells like it was written next to a simmering pot of chicken soup--like their last one--and an odd green letter with no postmark and no stamp.

She pockets the letter from Cate and Minnie to read later and turns the unmarked one over in her hands sets the rest in the basket by the kitchen table.

There's a coat of arms and a bunch of letters that are blurry, like maybe it was out in the rain. She can make out school and 'for your eyes only' and the rest are too fuzzy. The more she stares, it's like they get even _fuzzier_ somehow. Too much studying, her mum would say.

"Dad!" she calls out. "Did you apply to a boarding school?"

He leans away from the table and into view.

"No, we didn't. Why?"

She walks into the kitchen and shows him the letter.

"Ink's runny," she sighs. "But it says school and has a seal on it."

"Sure does. Huh. Maybe they saw your scores," he jokes, elbowing her.

"Dad! Loads of kids did well in writing."

"How many did well in _chemistry,_ Hermione? They don't even teach it unless you qualify for a tutor."

"Two," she admits.

"Well, go on. Open it. Where ever it's from, you earned your place."

Her mum comes in, wiping her hands on a rag. Looks like she's been working on her motorcycle again.

"Read it, please."

Dear Ms. Granger,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. 

As a student of magical descent in a non-magical household, you will also find enclosed a pamphlet regarding the wizarding world and your place in it. Rest assured that your receipt of this letter indicates your talent and potential for greatness.

  
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

  
Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall  
Deputy Headmistress

"She has amazing penmanship," her father says, having come to look over her shoulder. "Makes sense for an art institution, I suppose."

_Arts? What?_

"Mum, dad, it says right here, _witchcraft and wizardry._ It's a prank," she huffs. "Sarah Wilson, or maybe Madison Thomas."

"No, it says Hogwarts Academy, an Elite Preparatory School for the Liberal Arts. Seems it's quite well pedigreed," her mum adds, rattling off names of alumni like 'Xenophilious Lovegood' and 'Margaret Encantessa' who supposedly not only are real people, they have connections to Oxford and Cambridge.

"Where do you see that?"

"Right there, poppet," she replies, pointing to a blank spot on the page.

"Mum," Hermione groans. "That part's blank."

"That's the spirit," her dad teases. "We've been saying for a while that it's important to explore your creative side as well. Even if you do end up following in our footsteps, you'll be a happier dentis-"

"Or psychiatrist," her mother adds. "Or cardiologist. You'll be better and happier in your work if you're a well-rounded person."

"We should give it a look," her mum suggests.

"How?" Hermione scoffs. "No return address, no indication where this place is."

"Turn it over," whispers a voice.

Hermione flips the letter.

"Due to student privacy concerns, rather than provide a mailing address, please await contact by our representative who will answer any questions you may have."

Her parents are over the moon and all Hermione can think is that this is dodgy as it gets and they're probably going to get robbed and cut up for kidneys.

\-----

Two days later, she's studying on the couch--late, because she can stay up to study--when there's a knock on the front door.

"Hermione, love, get the door, please?"

"It's probably the school!" her father jokes.

She sighs and goes to the door.

Through the peephole, she sees a woman in black robes, like a magistrate's standing on front walk.

_This will be a laugh._

She opens the door.

"Miss Granger?" the woman asks. Her accent is rich, probably Edinburgh, and her posture is stiff enough a yardstick would be jealous.

"Yes. You are?"

"Professor Minerva McGonagall."

"The headmistress."

"The _deputy_ headmistress, but yes."

"The deputy headmistress of a school with no website, no mailing address, that no one I ever met has ever heard of? You'll forgive me if I don't take you at your word. This place existing is the least likely explanation."

The woman's lips twitch for a moment, like she wants to smile but thinks better of it.

"Rationalist and suspicious at that. I suppose I should have known. The signal you gave off was rather..."

This time she does smile.

"Precise. I'd never seen an adult wizard with such a rigid, bottled-up sort of aura, let alone an untrained one your age. The divinations professor was so surprised she checked her tea three times, to be sure that the groundskeeper's mushrooms hadn't gotten into the wrong patch. I suppose you would like some proof?"

Hermione nods.

"My parents are convinced I can do anything. So they're already packing my bags."

The woman kneels down and spreads out a large sheet of paper. Taking a pouch from inside her sleeve, she tips some fine black dust onto it.

"Spellpowder. Highly reactive but not very potent. Should be safe even with a young witch of your talent."

"What do I do with it?"

"Draw, of course!" 

_This'll be a laugh._

Hermione bends down.

"With your mind, not your finger, dear."

"You're joking."

"Assuredly not! Imagine a picture you'd like to see in the du-"

A rabbit from a cartoon show she used to watch with her father is etched before the professor can finish.

"Bloody hell," Hermione whispers.

"Did I?"

"Precisely and quickly, I might add. I assure you, young lady, that if I had done that using my wand..."

She pulls a intricately carved stick--magic wand, apparently--out of her sleeve and the parchment rolls itself back up while the dust disappears in a thousand little pops of red sparks.

"It would be burned into the cobblestones."

Hermione sighs.

"My parents saw something different in the letter. Words in spots that were blank, a different name for the school. Things like that."

McGonagall kneels down so she can look Hermione in the eye.

"They're not magical, young lady. It can be difficult for students from muggle--that is, not magical--families to take this in. Still, we strongly encourage students to attend. Your powers will only grow. Best to get control of them. Put them to use. Safer for you and your parents."

"Do I just disappear? They never know what happened to me?"

"Merlin, no! You can write to them. There's an enchantment on the school parchment that prevents any secrets from reaching them. If you talk about potions class, they'll read about chemistry. Charms class, manners and decorum. Transfiguration, which I teach, they will see as art, mathematics or engineering. Obviously, writing about your friends and your moods is not censored. Only details of your magical life."

"Now then, wou-"

"I'm in."

"It might behoove you to learn not to interrupt, young lady. I'll return day after tomorrow for a longer chat with your family, and then we should check the vault at Gringotts Bank. There's an inheritance there, quite a tidy one. It's marked for your schooling but it's an unnamed account. Not uncommon for muggleborns, especially if the line has been inactive a long time. But perhaps having you there will give some insight into your bloodline. Some students have visions, or recover memories of their family standing in a vault that blood relatives have used."


	2. Cat Lady Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crookshanks knows which witch to watch if he wants to move up in the world!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our girl is a level 20 nerd. Doesn't get out much... First time in years in London and she's rereading second term textbooks rather than sightseeing.  
> \-----  
> It will be my practice to slip things into canon as much as possible. So things like Hermione getting on the train (which happened, but was not described) will crop up. I'm also not sure we ever got a backstory on Crookshanks. Cats routinely conscript humans to be their food can openers so so feral Crookshanks choosing feral Hermione seemed good.  
> \-----  
> All spells constructed using ministry-approved Latin Spellcrafting Dialect (LSD).
> 
>  **Latin vocabulary:**  
>  (grouped by spells cast)
> 
> "revelare" = reveal  
> "curiosa" = odd or strange  
> "feminus" = women
> 
> "purificatio" = purify  
> "capillius" = hair
> 
> "fibrus" = fiber  
> "vergere" = bend or turn (root of English 'converge')

**Hermione**

There's nothing else she can do but sit here and worry. She's read the evocation book twice and can recite beginner's charms by page and paragraph. She's read the occult theory packet at breakfast, memorized the three cardinal sins of experimental spellcraft -- Didn't Think, Didn't Worry, and Didn't Step Back Far Enough--along with learning about the spectacularly messy deaths that inspired each. The four virtues used by professional channelers, hex engineers and enchanters might as well be tattooed in the inside of her brain at this point. 

Efficiency in patterns reduces difficulty of intent and caster strain.

Space out all fixed-location elements as far as possible.

Conserve chaos and divert it into borders of core functions.

Use of inimical or opposing wells of power.

McGonagall swore her to secrecy on the essays and reading packets. Said that she ordinarily wouldn't give them to a sixth year but that Hermione's first three uses of magic were those of a natural-born spell architect and better to learn how to build new and unheard of kinds of magic properly than try to do it on her own and turn the headmaster's office furniture into cheese or turn the south dormitory tower into a six-hundred foot tall goat, she said. She did not seem to be entirely joking about the risks and McGonagall actually winced when mentioning the goat thing. The way Hermione's mum winces when talking about the time she figured out she was pregnant because she puked on her dental school professor.

She doesn't like history but she's been through the history textbook four times after the nice old lady at the bookshop charmed it to look like that ghastly new vampire novel just so she could read ' _Burned the Wrong One: A Feminist Analysis of the Many Failures of Witchunters_ ' in public without seeming like an utter loon.

Forty minutes to boarding time. She's practically late by London standards. 

King's Cross station is swarming with people -- muggles, at least -- and for _once_ in her life, Hermione has a secret the other girls don't know. Besides the answers to the homework. Not one woman in the station so far has tripped the _revelare curiosa feminus_ spell McGonagall taught her and her wand is about to overheat. It feels like a curling iron stuffed in her sleeve. Even with the filter to reveal only magical women, keeping the spell running is absolutely brutal but she can't just let this Weasley woman sneak by. She's not allowed to know what the secret to getting on the train is, apparently, not unless a member of a magical family with children who have attended the school reveal it.

While she stayed in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor McGonagall spent two separate afternoons ranting about how expectations of housewitchery are reinforced by use of verbal incantations, especially Latin with all the gendered verbs and other baggage. She didn't feel the need to ask why McGonagall herself couldn't tell her.

"Mowr."

A ginger kitten is staring up at her. Skinny from not eating enough. The left side of the cat's face is pure white, the eye red. The other side of the face is a rusty red-brown and the eye a dark blue.

"Hey there," she coos. "Aren't you cute, with your asymmetric albinism and your leg."

She pats her knee. "Hop up."

He's purring hard enough to vibrate his whole head by the time he settles. He immediately sinks his claws into her jeans, like he thinks she'll throw him off.

"No collar on you, eh?"

 _"Purificatio capillius,"_ she whispers. A ripple of heat washes over the kitten's fur and over a dozen clumps of nasty brown glop tumble out.

It's unlikely that whispering will defeat the Ministry of Magic's detector for underage use of magic, but it's worth a try. Seems unlikely that they send every child who ever misbehaved to some demon-guarded prison, anyway.

They're not admitting it but there must be some kind of worldwide glamour running to keep muggles from investigating. Plenty of people make a living writing horror novels. Three girls in the upper classes are playing at being witches. Americans seem to love making haunted houses for carnivals. Yet no one has actually found a zombie, hexed their bully, or dated a vampire. Not unless they already knew where to look.

"Better without fleas, isn't it? Can't risk it by conjuring any cream, I'm afraid."

"Mew."

"Yeah," she sighs, dragging her nails over his head. "Afraid your the familiar of a real shit witch, little guy. I hear there's a spell for fixing broken legs, though. Maybe I can help you with your leg. What do you think I should call you?"

She'd only be half surprised if the cat answers. It's been a week since Hermione had to shut off the part of her brain that decides what's nonsense and what's not.

"Remind me never to ask your for help with writer's block."

The kitten hisses, a tiny growl caught in his throat.

_This cat can't possibly understand me. The whole cat, owl or toad thing is just tradition. Like all the bollocks about knee socks. Right?_

A shabby woman with some sort of pink glop staining her hair sits on the other side of the bench.

"Got money for a sandwich?" she asks.

She has a truly terrifying amount of gold on her — probably a quarter pound — but apparently to wizards, that's modest. All the coins are supposed to be warded against muggle thieves anyway.

"Not a pence. I have a sandwich though."

Hermione takes out the BLT her mother packed her and slides it over. The stranger reaches out and taps the cellophane with her one clean finger.

"Bloody hell, girl!" the woman groans. "Make me feel like a real nasty piece of work taking your school lunch."

She pushes the sandwich back.

"You can have it, really. Going away to boarding school. Shouldn't get too used to what I can't have," Hermione sighs.

"Explains the trunk. Hogwarts?"

"Yeah! Have yo-"

"Not here. Packed with muggles. I'm an auror. Me not writing you up is going out on a limb as it is."

"Right. Sorry."

"Look, you seem like a good kid. I'm just here to tell you to keep a leash on that," she says, pointing to the kitten.

"A leash? On the cat? It's just a cat, isn't it?"

The witch laughs. She snaps her fingers and a wand slides out of her tattered trench coat. She puts only her index finger on it and whispers something that makes the wood of the bench peel up and curl in on itself until it forms a small collar of chain links, then pulls a fistful of cotton scraps out of a breast pocket.

"Merlin's beard! With a sinister eye that dark? That's a full-blooded Ozymandian tabby, kid. Not a muggle breed. Not by a mile. Animal that expensive, I'm surprised you don't have him in a warded carrier."

"Expensive? He just came over here."

"You're kidding. They're rare, even after that litter hatched in the British Museum during the the cat mummies disaster couple years back. Merlin, that was awful. Professor spattered on every wall of the place. That pharaoh's curse-smiths were not messing around."

"No. Came up to me like any old stray."

"You're saying an ozzie just wandered up to a first year? Bet I'll hear about you again, then. That cat walked by six muggles, a dish of ice cream, and three unwatched fish and chips baskets to get to you. Didn't get distracted once. He probably could smell your magical core from outside the station. _Fibrus vergere._ "

The cotton reforms into a short leash of braided pink ribbons. She ties it onto the collar and the kitten rubs his coppery head into her palm as she pulls away.

"Friendly fellow, aren't you? Guess your mum ran away from the necromancers before she had you."

"Uh, thanks for the leash. Didn't plan to adopt a pet while I was waiting"

"Don't mention it. All the fun witches are partial to cats or toads," she teases, turning to face Hermione. "They're what wizard zoologists call uncanny animals. Feral cats and toads end up familiars because of deviations in their aura. Cats especially. Ever had a cat just look at you and your hair stood on end?"

"My grandmother's cat. Every time I visit," Hermione chuckles.

"Isn't your imagination. Unless they're fully tame, cats are not quite normal, which is why most people don't like them. The idea of women living alone with cats and toads made Shakespeare's hair curl up. Owls are great, sure. But at your age, bringing them to school is bullshit. Pureblood families posturing about who's got a longer stack of galleons by having an expensive pet that can do private mail service."

She knocks her knuckles on the wood of the bench.

"Keep an eye on your new friend. And no more active spells till you're on the train. The witch detector is fine."

"Didn't work though."

"Every punk who ever thought he was going to use a conjured-up gun to rob a muggle had a spell up to detect magic, girl. You're not going to detect an on-duty auror with that kind of thing. If you do, she doesn't deserve to come home from her shift. Fleas aren't cute and granted, you'll see loads of nastier spells used for pimple removal. But that was still a spell that killed a living thing."

"Right," she sighs. "If you'll excuse me, there's a dhampir lurking near the lost and found. Stumbling around like he had a few too many pints last night. So I'm going to go stop that rookie cop from becoming walking hair of the dog. Ta!"

She hops up from the bench. By the time she's taken ten steps, her dirty pink hair has melted and reformed into a tight blonde bun, she's turned the trenchcoat into a uniform, conjured a policewoman's cap and somehow gained at least four inches in height while her shoulders broadened and her limbs packed on muscle.

"Do you think maybe cats are like pirates?" Hermione asks. "Named after what they look like? Blackbeard, Calico Jack, Ugly Robert, that sort of thing?"

She gets an angry, lingering yowl for an answer.

"Well, I'm buying the cream and I think so. Meaning your name is Crookshanks."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tonks is the reincarnated soul of a stray cat: grumpy, likes weird but warm clothing, makes odd noises and enjoys harassing dogs and dog-adjacent creatures.  
> 


	3. Children's Coven Presents:  I'm Not Scared of Magic Anymore!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where our dear witch knows that being muggle born means she is still a little kid in wizarding culture.

**Hermione**

This book clearly written for children younger than her, to be easily digestible to them. Perhaps that's for the best, though. One of the senior professors is giving her work she shouldn't have, claiming it's for 'the safety of my sanity' that Hermione learn things half a dozen British wizards and witches know. That's not the same thing as knowing the wizarding world. A world which she hopes extends past one alley and an ominous, black tiled rat's nest of hallways where apparently an entire shadow government exists.

She can study magic and as a student, she's fearsome. She knows this, she only fights her parents on it because Hermione saw a pair of twin boys a year younger than her utterly destroyed by their own genius. They did nothing else. Their parents were on television. American doctors and magazine sat for interviews. The boys were perfect.

Then one of them missed a grade and their mother snapped. She's not sure if Tommy killed himself, because Madison Thomas saying something makes it less likely to be true, not more. She just knows that he hasn't been seen at school since and his twin looks through things now, not at them. Never easy to chat with, James is now robotic, using the minimum number of words to get away.

Hermione isn't an idiot. She's more like Tommy than she wants to admit. She's excellent at schoolwork and barely good enough at anything else--besides bird and squirrel watching--to nod and smile through an evening with her own parents. Her classmates in her old school can't think about anything but making, having and enjoying more friends. Like it's a race. She doesn't have friends, not like that. Sounds exhausting.

What she can't study is being magical. Being part of this entire world that she didn't know existed three weeks ago.

So, she reminds herself how it felt when she stepped into Diagon Alley and saw the brooms dusting the shop windows on their own and a enchanted spool lading out caramel at the sweets shop. A lady was there running a booth for muggle-borns with a T-Shirt over her robes that read 'I went to Diagon Alley and it actually is a straight line' and she pulled Hermione into a big hug the moment she stepped out the door of the Leaky Cauldron. An excitable young man probably twice her age asked her if she knew about how muggles fought wars in space and she got stuck explaining that Star Wars, Star Trek and Doctor Who weren't real. He seemed disappointed. 

Three hours later, she realized why a grown man would ask that sort of thing. In the world he came from, that sort of thing being real didn't seem odd at all.

She wants to read _I'm Not Scared of Magic Anymore: help for our Muggle-born friends for all ages_ slowly and try to appreciate it with the wonder of a child first learning to read.

The fact that there's a crayon drawing of a plump witch in a pink hat waving at her on the cover doesn't hurt.

  
**I'm a witch or wizard! Now what?**

Being a witch or wizard is important to keeping our friends safe. Especially our muggle friends. Magic adds to the world and it should never be used to take away or make it sadder. Why without us, who will chase away the centaurs and the wrackenspurts? Who will make sure that nasty things like self-turning wrenches don't attack the nice lady down the way?

The first thing you should do is go to school. At school you'll learn to control magic and be good at it. Listen to your teachers. They'll make sure you know what is safe and what is not.

**Mummy, daddy, what's a beast?**

Beasts are something that happens to the bodies of some wizards and most witches. Just like how some people have dark hair and some people don't, some witches and wizards have beasts, animals that live inside their heads (and sometimes their bodies, yikes!) that are specially for them. It's like a part of yourself that you can talk to, a friend you live with all the time. Some people might have a cat in their heads, or a dog, or a snake, or even a magical creature like a soft-shelled skrewt or a miniature dragon. You can't change the beast in your head, but you can find it.

**How do I know if I have a beast?**

Aas you grow older, you'll notice funny things. Like boys, maybe your voice is squeaky, and girls, maybe you are bleeding. That's good and normal and it happens to muggles too. All your friends are learning the same things about their bodies, so you shouldn't be ashamed of it. 

What does not happen to muggles is having a beast. You'll find out if you have a beast because you'll start dreaming about being it when your body starts changing. You might imagine yourself running through the woods, eating grass, or being under the grass if your beast is something like a snake! Understanding what your beast is is something your teacher of magical zoology can help with.

Remember, all beasts are beautiful and no beast is good or bad. It only makes good or bad choices.

**What if I don't have a beast?**

Great! Some people don't. Some people find keeping track of their beasts makes them tired. You won't have to worry about that. Imagine if your friend's beast its a kitty cat. They might want to eat tuna fish five times a day or worse, or scratch up the curtains in their sleep. If you don't have a beast, you can help your friends control themselves if they change into their beasts.

**Are some beasts better than others?**

No. Some beasts are bigger, or stronger, but a clever witch or wizard can always do exactly what they need to with their beasts help. Some people think that their beasts, or the way their beast acts, or how loud of sounds it can make means they are in charge. The only people in charge are your teachers.

**My parents say I can't have a beast until I get married. Is that true?**

Not really. Just like when you're human, you are the one making the choices. Make good choices your parents will like and you will be happy and they will be proud of you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sounds strangely muggle positive and lighthearted?
> 
> That's not because it's a kid's book. It's because anything written by "Children's Coven" should be seen as the point of view of liberal witches and wizards. Hippies at the far left wing of wizarding politics. Luna Lovegood's mother is co-founder and was managing editor until her untimely death.  
> \-----  
> The reason that roughly 30% of wizards have a beast but 70% of witches do is a topic of intense magical debate among theorists in adjacent fields like tissue transfiguration, magical theorists specializing in life magic and constructive or 'white' soul magic (as opposed to destructive soul magic AKA 'black magic') and specialists on animagi and magical cosmetic procedures. 
> 
> Among healers or mediwitches and as a practical matter, it is considered settled study in all but the most backward, aggressively traditionalist circles. The fact that even the latest-occurring witches with beasts manifest around their first period, and that many witches accidentally shift during pregnancy suggests that childbearing and the more direct role the female body plays in creating new life creates a deeper link to the beast.
> 
> Some magical philosophers call this 'birthing one's true self'.


	4. The Most Unstylish of Hats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where a studious girl has to take a leap of faith and turn away from the more bookish students.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added some career counselor and therapist-esque behaviors to the Sorting Hat. It knows she's lonely and it knows how the friend networks and opportunities offered by different house's might play out in a more professional and academic sense.
> 
> Latin vocabulary:  
> (grouped by spells cast)
> 
> "sangre" = blood  
> "feminus" = keep
> 
> "calvariam" = skull  
> "duresco" = harden

**Hermione  
**(Hogwarts, First Year | July 31)

The little bottle of the train compartment was perfect. A quiet place with just two other people, both scared like she is, and no one to interrupt them. Save for the oddly intense stare of her first acquaintance even close to her own age -- the famous Harry Potter -- the train felt like more of King's Cross station, unusual but not insane. The only things not possible in the muggle world is that the chocolate animals were frogs and Crookshanks was a blur, hopping around the cabin trying to catch the other boy's pet rat and moving faster than a cat has any business moving. Probably magic, given his odd breed.

She's already wobbling on the edge of a strong dislike for Ron. Not only does he not know what he's doing, he assumes he does know and doesn't seem keen to learn. Given his famous family and this whole pure-blood business meaning he has to live up to it, Ron may shape up after his first bad grade.

Harry Potter is an easy person to like. He seems as baffled by the whole thing as she is and if she doesn't have a muggle born to complain to, she's going to go barking mad. He's quiet and beyond shy. This means he spends listening with other people talk and usually responds to what she said, not what he guessed she said before she was halfway done.

At least she can be muggle born and _ordinary_ here. He's stuck being famous no matter how well or how poorly he does. Famous isn't going to mean popular, she thinks. Not after the look he got from that greasy-haired blonde twat with the idiot bullies tailing him around. 

In what must have been less than ten minutes, she's been not-so-slyly insulted by Malfoy for being muggle born. She's been marched past heaping piles of food while her stomach clenches and gurgles with nerves and need. She's been herded into a circle of whimpering first-years at the front where they wait until they are sorted and can sit and eat. Despite being accepted as the mightiest living wizard, somehow Albus Dumbledore runs a school where there are at least two places she could be killed, one of them an interior hallway with something lurking in it.

The rumors in the paper about the Defense Against the Dark Arts position having a curse on it might well be true. The jumpy young man who took it looks like he'd faint if someone dropped a coffee cup and it broke.

Ron went to Gryffindor, no surprise really, as the hat also put other students like Draco Malfoy and Neville Longbottom in houses that their relatives had been placed in for generations.

Hopefully with none other than Harry Potter up next, all the Slytherins staring at her like a juicy steak will forget how she got sorted.

"Well now," the hat muses in a booming tenor. "Quite the curious witch you are!"

"A bit quieter, yeah?" Hermione hisses. "I'm nervous. I'm...not sure I belong here."

"Humble, eh? Well, that's not helpful. Anyone can be humble. Why, the Slytherins are the most humble people to ever live! Just ask them!"

"The brains for Ravenclaw, that's for sure. Ahh, yes. I'd bet my buckle you'd be back here and teaching in fifteen years..."

"Hufflepuff is a great place to make friends. No one ever did anything great alone."

"Courage, I think. Could be true courage here, lost among these smarts. Gryffindor is for heroes, dreamers, and lost causes, I always say."

"Please," she groans. "Gryffindor. I can work on the rest but I don't know anyone anywhere else."

"Is that so?"

"GRYFFINDOR!" it roars.

She runs for the table as fast as she can.

By the time Harry has the hat on his head, she's been hugged by three Weasley brothers in a row, passed like a baton. Then she is grabbed by Parvati, a slight Indian girl with golden skin and fidgety hands who is crying because her twin sister is in Ravenclaw.

\-----

If someone told her the food had been enchanted to help with the nerves, she'd believe them. Chicken and turkey drumsticks and gleaming, glaze-dripping hams and steaming rolls and huge bowls of potatoes. She wasn't sure she could take anything heavy and glanced around, looking for toast, or fruit, or anything her insides could put up with. That's when she spotted an empty plate a few seats down the table.

Almost no sooner had she done it than a stack of pancakes appeared with a crisp 'pop' sound like someone snapping their fingers. Already drizzled with raspberry syrup and _exactly the food_ she was homesick for at that instant.

Food helped. Hiding in the common room and being alone in a roomful of strangers helped much more.

After not sleeping for two days, Hermione is nodding off in an armchair. 

Someone nudges her foot with theirs.

"Hermione," Ron whispers. "Go to sleep."

"Whassat?"

"Go downstairs to your dorm. Fall sleep while you still remember how. I'd help you get set up but...girl's dorm and all."

"Right."

She stumbles to her feet.

"G'night, Ron."

He shakes his head.

"Night, you tosser. Don't trip, yeah? Mum'll kill me if you die."

* * *

**Hermione**

(Hogwarts, First Year | Early morning before the 3rd Day of Term)

Hermione jerks awake. She had been in the middle of a perfectly pleasant dream about taking a test where chocolate simply appeared whenever she got a question right.

There's a strange noise. Someone breathing loudly and it sounds like they're sick, rattling and huffing like they might choke to death at any moment.

Lavender's asleep, face down in her pillow and sort of bunched up, with her bum in the air and her arms at funny angles. Rather like someone picked her up and tossed her and when she landed face down, she never actually _laid_ down the rest of the way. Every now and then, she makes a whistling little snore.

Lily Moon is laid out like she's going to a funeral, with her long, skinny hands folded over her chest and her red hair fanned out behind her on the pillow. She wears a locket with a vial of white liquid in it. A locket which seems to be hovering in midair.

Parvati is missing. The lamp by her bed is on the ground broken and those stains on it look like blood.

The door is closed, and the tamper-proofing charm she put on it is unbroken. Meaning someone used magic to kidnap her roommate and must have gone in and out the window or the chimney.

She tries the trick Flitwick taught her to summon her wand and gets it on the second try. He pulled aside only the muggle born students after class, meaning he was likely doing it to give them an edge against bullies trying to take their wands.

" _Lumos_."

She can't see much until her eyes are adjusted but there's something. An injured animal of some kind, over by the wardrobes.

As the pain from the sudden light fades, Hermione realizes that is sitting in the corner of their room.

A tiger. Massive. It's struggling to get a sliver of glass out of its paw. Part of the lamp, probably. If it's one of their beasts, it's likely to keep growing until they're adults. Professor Trelawney's four-foot-wide butterfly with color-splashed wings is legend among the students.

Parvati's locket with her initials on it is tangled in the thick collar of its orange fur. There's no blood around the mouth, so it isn't there because the cat ate her.

The cat is Parvati.

"Oh, dear."

_What did the magical zoology guy say? Behave the same, don't threaten, move slowly._

"Parv?"

The cat's head snaps up.

"Hi. It's me, remember? Hermione?"

The tiger huffs, ruffling her nightgown with damp air.

"Would you like some help with that?" she asks, pointing at the injured paw. "Probably easier with fingers."

A snarl sounds deep in the cat's chest and huge fangs peek between the lips.

She points her wand at her carotid artery. She can't really do anything if Parvati attacks her and she's not going to fight back but she can make it hard to kill her if she bites, pounces, or claws.

 _"Sangre retinere!"_ she hisses, before tapping the wand to the base of her skull. " _Calvariam duresco._ "

There's a cock of the head and she'd swear that Tiger-Parvati is laughing at her or would be, if she had vocal cords.

She doesn't have long before the charms keeping her blood from leaving no matter the depth of the cut fades. The charm to make sure that nothing but extreme magical force can crack her skull has an even shorter half-life. Minutes, if she uses any other magic.

Hermione summons the jar of fuzzyhead clover jelly from her nightstand and twists the lid off. She won it from Madam Pomfrey in the second lecture for correctly answering questions about the intersection of muggle doctoring and mediwitchery.

Apparently it's a commonly used painkiller potion. Based on her self-experimentation with a sewing needle and a skin-repair charm, punches far above its weight. Similar power to injected lidocaine used in root canals when rubbed on the skin. When she taste tested it, she got a numbing effect on the senses that meant she probably could have lost a limb without feeling it. The dizzy, spinning blur of light and sound was unpleasant enough that it doesn't seem likely anyone would take it for fun.

Hopefully, it absorbs through the skin of a tiger. At the very least, she needs it to work on a mental projection of a tiger that her friend made flesh and blood as she dreamt.

She pours it out over the wound and pours another puddle on the floor before encouraging Parvati to put her paw there so the other side is numbed too. It's more than half of the jar. She hopes she can buy more in Hogsmeade because she thinks this place is going to give her a headache more nights than not.

Parv settles and lets Hermione scoot closer.

"Bet that was scary, huh?"

A massive, velvet-furred snout bumps into Hermione's chest.

"If you say so," she jokes.

It works marvelously. She buries her face in Hermione's lap. The glass comes out smoothly and before Hermione can reach for her wand, blue sparks trace along the wound.

"Let's go back to bed, huh?"

Before she can stand, Parvati topples her and presses a single big paw to her hip. The rough pads span the whole way from her navel to the thigh. Holding her on the floor, Parvati huffs and scents her and finally curls up in front of her, pinning her still and yawning as her head settles on Hermione's nightgown.

\-----

Hermione wakes up to someone kissing her shoulder.

“Wha?” she mumbles, wishing she knew the charm to summon things other than her wand. Days like this, she uses her glasses.

“Parv?”

Her friends eyes are still glazed and she doesn’t seem to be looking at Hermione. Or isn’t aware Hermione is looking at her, maybe.

“Parv!”

With a shriek, Parvati jumps back.

She’s naked and the blush darkening her skin goes from waist to ears.

Before Hermione can collect herself off the floor, her own robes are thrust into her face.

“You’re pret-“

Parvati squeaks.

“You smell ni-“

She whines.

“I mean...”

_Does she fancy me?_

“Ugh. Stupid beast making me say things. Here’s your robes.”

“Thanks.”

She wants to change and have a shower before breakfast, but she’s not sure what that might do. Parvati’s breathing fast and her pupils are changing from being round to being catlike slits, and the brown in her eyes is flecked with gold. It seems unlikely that tenderly nosing someone’s tummy is normal tiger behavior for having a jagged sharp thing pulled out of your paw, and her hair is an absolute fiasco. Almost as if it was licked in the night.

Their safety packets on having a beast said that it isn’t ever truly restrained and reading between the lines, the only reason people’s beasts don’t maul their friends and family is that the beast and the human are two paintings of one scene. They want the same things: food, shelter, company, having fun. The beast simply has much less patience about it and no shame in just going for what it wants.

Parv’s beast wasn’t exactly shy about touching or smelling her and the blush and her stammering nonsense means it’s probably coming from both.

Best not to undress where she can see.

No one says much as they walk down to breakfast. Everyone’s rubbing their eyes, or yawning or shuffling. Classes don’t run past sunset but even the students who have lived in the wizarding world their whole lives seemed excited to be here. A few others had their beasts, or got them in the night. They can shift outside of class long as they behave so she suspects that breakfast, lunch and dinner will be playtime for most.

It starts when a pale greyhound walks up to the table and drops a bundle of ribbon it carried in its mouth. The dog shakes itself and suddenly it’s Dean Thomas throwing a towel around himself and shimmying into his pants.

_Clever, having a change of clothes on you. Compression charm? Wonder if I could add a obscuring charm? Backup for if I can’t get dressed quickly…_

Seamus Finnegan bites into his eggs. He must have been so busy watching Dean’s little trick he didn’t notice the pepper cap falling off. Looks like he’s about to sneeze.

A burst of flame singes the table where Seamus had been and a winged lizard with shiny red scales and a body about the size of a fist is sitting on the bench, turning around to look at its clubbed tail and puffing sparks as it dances foot to foot.

“Guess that explains the fire mishap in Charms, eh mate?” Ron jokes.

Parvati pokes Hermione with a spoon.

"Don’t tell anyone?” Parvati begs. “Please?”

“About the beast?”

“Well, you can say I got one, but don’t tell them the Indian girl is a tiger. I’ll be hearing Sheera Khan jokes non-stop from Draco for the next seven years if you do. Be like if Dean Thomas turned into a monkey instead of that.”

Hermione scoffs.

“Racists aren’t creative, are they?”

“Usually not.”

Hermione elbows her.

“Bet he’d squeal like a piglet if you caught him with those big paws of yours,” Hermione jokes. “Also I’m pretty sure he should be calling you Ivan or Katerina instead. It’s a Siberian tiger, not one from India.”

That seems to brighten Parvati’s mood immensely.

“You sure?”

Hermione tears into the toast.

“Pretty sure. Our school used to go to the zoo to volunteer and there was a tiger. Bengal tiger. But your paws and neck had way more fur than what I remember. Have to see if Hedwig can collect some of my old muggle textbooks.”

“What’s a zoo?”

“Huh?”

Parvati blushes again.

“I’m a pureblood, sorry. It’s probably something really obvious.”

“It’s fine. A zoo is…”

Hermione laughs.

“Interesting. I just realized something. So wizards have magical zoology, right?”

“Sure, why?”

“Zoology is the study of animals. Muggles have it too, just not with the magic. Muggle universities have lots of ology-s. Psychology for doctors who help people with mental problems. Meteorology for weather. Geology for rocks. Psych, meteo, geo...”

Parvati drums her spoon against her tea while she thinks.

“So a zoo…has something to do with animals?”

“Yes. It's a place where muggles go to see animals. Unusual ones, at least. Like a park in the middle of the city, with cages or little artificial pits with rocks and water and food, buildings with special glass rooms for the snakes and lizards and whatnot. Loads of zoos also do breeding programs for the rare animals. For other zoos or to go back into the wild. Zoo near where I grew up had two tigers. Little ones. Nothing like that.”

“Besides. You should be very proud of your beast. I thought you made a brilliant pillow.”

“HERMIONE!”

Parvati refuses to talk to her the rest of breakfast.

As they walk to potions, she and Hermione take turns making pig noises at the back of Draco’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to draw a bit of a brighter line between muggle/wizard here so that wizards who don't bother reaching out or experiencing muggle culture, entertainment or even muggle-dominated cities really don't know anything about them. 
> 
> The Weasleys seem to go out of their way to interact with muggles. Many don't, including otherwise well meaning families like the Longbottoms.
> 
> Given how easily things like the Knight Bus evade detection, the possibility of instant escape by apparition, memory wiping and mind control charms, it's reasonable to assume that if wizards don't want to deal with muggles, they just ignore their existence entirely.
> 
> So I think professions that might be thriving in the muggle world but never existed in the wizarding world don't ring a bell to otherwise educated purebloods. Words with shared roots where one variant died off in either the muggle or wizard worlds would seem foreign.
> 
> That's why Pavrati, a muggle-friendly and well educated witch, hasn't encountered things like zoos before. It's not part of her sheltered and affluent upbringing.


	5. A Giant, A Huntress, and a Pocketful of Puppy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Madam Maxine is a dog person, Fleur enjoys camping, her mother is demanding, and Gabby is Fleur's biggest headache and biggest supporter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each house at Beauxbatons has a "martial model" and an "academic model" whom they strive to emulate.
> 
> As a military academy, their houses are named after roles different soldiers played in wars.
> 
> The historical backing of the House Names at Beauxbatons is as follows
> 
>  **Chevaliers** (knights) = Refers to members of noble families in the Middle Ages who were trained to fight in heavy armor and on horseback. Utterly obsolete not long after he invention of gunpowder but remembered and romanticized for their oaths to their lords and for the code of chivalry.
> 
>  **Corsairs** (pirates) = Refers to raiders on the high seas who attacked, looted and sank ships and killed, ransomed, or in some cases enslaved crews. Pirates were purely illegal operators while privateers had a 'letter of marque' which was proof of backing from one king or queen to attack and loot the ships flying the flags of enemy nations. A privateer would be immune to prosecution from that nation, even though to others, they were merely pirates.
> 
>  **Fusiliers** (riflemen) = Refers to a variety of units that were previously armed with a fusil. In more recent times, they were infantry units with pre-gunpowder histories or "flying columns", a term for quick-marching units used to run longer-distance campaigns on the enemy.
> 
>  **Gendarmes** (military police) = Refers to units that investigate crimes and problems within the army and enforce discipline.
> 
>  **Grenadiers** (soldiers armed with grenades) = Refers to units that specialized in use of explosives and later, assault troopers who were often the largest and fittest men on the field.

**Fleur**

(Beauxbatons, Sixth Year | June 3 | Term ends in eleven days)

_note: all spells are in-language, all dialogue is translated from French_

Fleur jerks upright, fumbling for her wand.

" _Lumen_."

By the time she's dipped the quill, half of the dream is gone. In the dream, it's so real she can taste it. She wakes with the phantom pain of hands clamped on her hips and teeth on her neck. Seconds later, it's a child's make believe. 

Ponderer's Pencils don't work either. Something about the mate dreams in particular flummox the pencil's ability to read her mind and sketch her thoughts.

Her memories in class, her meditation, even her ordinary dreams? Those it can handle. She has a three hundred page illuminated saga of herself scheming out how to put a rubberization spell on Paul Dupont's saber before Cupid's Tournament.

The tournament seems like something the English might have done in years past, when they treated their awakened and beasted girls like breeding stock. Grunting male nonsense.

It's dueling for a supervised night out on the town and not access to a poor girl tied to a bed. That only pretties it up so much. Plenty of blood has been shed in boxing and dueling rings for a chance to visit a cafe or a theater with Fleur or her cousins.

Elise entered the spring Cupid on a lark. Another free meal and lakeside walk. Practice for meaningful courtship with her mate when she met him.

Then Paul entered her Charms classroom. Elise's feathers came out for the first time in her life, her veela shrieking her brain, her body sizzling with the knowledge that _this_ onewas _the_ one. At which point there was an actual problem. She wanted an evening alone with Paul to confirm her suspicions that he was her mate. Paul is an excellent duelist and an easy favorite but Elise needed him to fail in a particular match in the semifinals, so his highest placement win was with Elise on offer. As the nest mother's daughter Fleur has no choice, not when it comes to flock-mates. So she broke into the armory and cursed the steel to fail when Elise's heart beat fastest. It went soft as a noodle moments before he defeated his opponent, ensuring a loss in the exact spot Elise wanted one.

To tamper with a weapon cadets use for training is a grave offense in an academy like Beauxbatons but Madam Maxine seemed to know the real reason, as she always does when it comes to the machinations of her students. One month's chores in the laundry, scrubbing stains out of third year girl's bedsheets and underwear with no magic but a skin-protecting charm for the soap.

All worth it in the end. Three days ago, Elise swanned into room, closing the door on five shivering, panting girls from the younger grades. The shape of a man's lips tattooed on the pale skin of her throat by the bond's fire. She had gotten her mark.

That night, they drank stolen whisky and the flock prodded and cooed and teased until they drew out every tiny detail of Elise's date and the walk by the lake. To move so eagerly when one's fated mate is a _man_ and not a woman or a veela seemed to scandalize the Delacour-Santiago twins. Fleur's hands still reeked of female musk and her flock-mates were looking askance at her because it smelt of feathers lost by her sisters. No idea why they blame her. They all know that their underthings go missing, especially during their cycle. It's not as if boys can get in here and straight girls treat her family like plague rats hang around their necks.

The curious girls...she wouldn't put anything past them.

In the bed opposite hers, a candle flickers to life. Gabrielle yawns and brushes her hair from her forehead.

"Daisy? Are you all right?" 

"You know that daisies are my least favorite flower, yes?"

"Of course," Gabrielle chortles. "But maman didn't name you Helleborus, she named you Fleur. So your favorite flower doesn't matter."

"Go to sleep, little sister. Just a dream."

"Dreaming of your mate again?" Gabrielle asks.

"Yes. Which is why you are not part of this conversation. Too young."

Gabrielle huffs and crosses her arms.

She'll probably have a _worse_ nickname for Fleur by morning.

\-----

"Quickly now," Fleur whispers over her shoulder.

House Chevalier flows behind her like a river of powder-blue coats and gray slippers. Fleur leads her charges downstairs with the benefit of five year's practice. 

One of the house elves, Tan, tips his knit beret at her and tucks the miniature scrub brush back into the pouch on his shirt before he pops out of sight. Five wood pixies escaped from the dessert kitchens orbit her face, bombarding her with rude gestures and screechy-whispered taunts. Demanding their slice of gossip about Fleur and her veela sisters.

"Perhaps if you ate some of your own chocolate, you would not be such nosy little bugs," she grumbles, charming a bubble of fog to swirl around her face. Pixies loathe moisture. Sticks their gowns right to their skin.

Their ringleader, Flax, doesn't fall back. Instead, she tosses her crystalline mane over her shoulder and sniffs.

"I could never, Doctor Delacour! Think of my figure." 

"If you're so keen on my mother as to mistake me for her, I'm sure she has an opening at the estate. Usually does."

Flax's tiny hands clap madly together.

"Come on, ladies!"

They slip out an open window. Flax stops to pat the fat Siamese cat on the windowsill.

"Sarah!" Fleur scolds. "You know better than to sleep out here."

The cat hisses and curls back up.

To each her own when it comes to avoiding reminders of heartbreak, Fleur supposes. If she had the time or energy to date, no doubt she'd have the same sad memories. 

Dating takes energy and Fleur has none to give.

Her mother was very clear when she visited Fleur at Beauxbatons for her first Christmas here. First in class by Easter, head of her year by the time she came back in the fall, first girl by third year and valedictorian by fifth. No easy feat.

Disobeying the wishes of Dr. Apolline Delacour is Fleur's dearest pleasure in life but a dangerous one too. Best to be indulged only sparingly. Success in her schooling was a rare point of agreement.

With rare exceptions, the boys are always late for breakfast. They really have no reason to come down early. Each of the boys' houses is headed by a male teacher who valiantly attempts to keep some measure of control over his hormonal charges.

"Hats straight, ladies!" Fleur calls out.

Twenty three girls behind her move as one creature, like a whole garden of flowers straightening themselves at once. Dutiful as lambs, her girls.

In the common room or the dorms, looks are nothing. Fleur enforces no dress code on the inner workings of her house, not even the school's own. So much easier to have non-veela friends if they've seen her not just in her uniform but also in a squashy sweater and jeans one snag from total destruction.

Out here, looks are everything. One more competition. Her house will win the crown this year. Again. Next year, someone else can break the streak Chevaliers have enjoyed since before Louis XIV's rule.

The House of Chevaliers was the first founded, rising out of the wild soup that preceded Beauxbatons' proper history. Jeanne D'Arc is their martial model and Marie Curie is their academic model. Jeanne's father sired a child with a witch who trailed along after the English army and this Amelia was first headmistress. The Maid of Orleans herself is on the house sigil. A likeness painted by the last living man who knew her and enchanted by the first headmaster and reproduced by countless embroidery charms by witches in homes all over France.

That is what Chevaliers must be. Exceptional women from who peel back the mysteries of the universe and strike terror into the hearts of those who walk uninvited on France's soil. Women around whom legends grow, wars are won, and history revolves. Fleur sees to it that her little knights do not shame her or their house and in so doing, they become women of exceptional grace and cleverness without realizing it's happening.

Outsiders think of Beauxbatons in terms of the Chevaliers and then some vague crowd of the other students. Normally this is with a fierce pride but when one of her flock or the Herschels is head of house, much of the the murmuring is less than kind. Dilettantes. Tramps. Whores. No doubt every philandering wizard in France has tried to use the 'but she was a veela!' excuse when cornered. People seem to think that her family never crack a book. Probably because they themselves wouldn't bother to earn anything if a smile to the professor and a blast of allure would earn top marks.

The boys don't come downstairs until class. Their alliances are made in house, or between the boy's houses so there's little need to mingle. Professor Trant will no doubt have already treated the poor Grenadiers to a dozen stories of bravery, cleverness, and fraternity among men in his sniffling German accent. Professor Antonov and his wife treat the Corsairs like their own sons. No doubt recounting some ghastly tale of his misspent youth this very moment. Explains the house's randy ways, she supposes.

The head girls of the Gendarmes and Fusiliers always make it down before Fleur brings her girls down. So Fleur leads an army on the march each day, not just a loose herding of yawning children.

Titanic doors of solid oak stand before Fleur. Too large for her to open by force. If she were truly veela, perhaps, or could shift. A veela full in her power, attuned to her beast and wearing her feathers could throw these monsters open as easily as Fleur does the doors to her bedroom. 

"Ready?" Fleur asks over her shoulder.

"Yes, Mademoiselle!"

She flicks her hand and the doors part for them. Left hand tight on the pommel of her uniform's saber, she leads her girls to breakfast.

"Good morning, headmistress!" Fleur calls out.

Madam Maxine's larger-than-life frame is draped in an _insanely_ _orange_ shawl of loosely-knit wool. So tall and sturdy that she looks like Athena's statue on Acropolis, at least if Athena had an unhinged fashion sense. First and second years flit about her table, asking questions and giggling with each other.

Her grin flashes in the sun. 

"Good morning, girls!"

To her right, the head of the Gendarmes grinds her teeth at the mere sight of Fleur and the head of the Fusiliers rolls her eyes. Laetita is a dear friend. She just doesn't see what all the fuss is about with the house crown. On theme, when their martial model is the Forgotten Brave and their academic one the Scholar. In war, Riflemen are the commoners. Nameless conscripts. They are brave, their aim is keen and a dozen of them can do things that a lone knight never could. In tribute, Fusiliers is the most numerous house by more than five to one.

They've never won house crown but they've never really tried. If they did, the combined merits of five hundred student's essays, drills, and acts of kindness to their fellow students would swamp the score of the other houses in a week or two.

Fleur sends her girls to the tables in little self-organized squadrons. This dozen who want to flirt with the jaegerin in Gendarme or that half dozen who pine for the the dashing Saudi boy in Corsairs with a crisp goatee and a jumpy way about him. Always fearing the imams will find him. Her cousin Regina, who would pluck her last feather if it would get that odd American girl in Fusiliers to smile. Gabrielle stays at her side as she mounts the steps to the head table and takes her seat beside Madam Maxine. Gabby slides in to her seat beside Laetita and as soon as she gets a crepe on her plate she proceeds to launch into a spirited argument for dating Fleur, and getting over Laetita's last relationship and horrifyingly, the superiority of veela in all manners erotic.

What do Americans call it? Wingman? Hers is a twelve year old sister and no zealot alive could match Gabrielle's conviction.

"You must try this," Madam Maxine gushes, spearing two sausages of different shades and sliding a plate to Fleur. "Simply divine. Tell me what you think."

The spread today is rather American in theme: sausage, various egg dishes, unusually thick crepes pretending to be pancakes, hashed potatoes sprinkled with cinnamon. Fleur adds one of each to her plate.

She tries the darker sausage first. It's rich and sweet, faintly spiced.

"Venison. The meat was steamed with apples and...mmm...pears. Before it was cased."

"Rum too," Madam Maxine whispers before a sip of her morning brandy. She'll have drunk enough to put a human woman on the floor by dinner time. Given her size, the headmistress will be only rosy cheeked.

The other meat is sinfully fatty and rich.

"Duck. With oranges and honey."

There's a nasty thought poking around her had, like a pixie with a stick. Usually is, after she dreams of her mate. Food distracts and the headmistress knows this.

"Headmistress," Fleur teases. "Are these from our last hunt together?"

As if it were a meaningful reply, the headmistress waves her hand like fleur's words were an unpleasant smell to be fanned away.

"What kind of woman do you take me for? As if I'd open myself up over a few days in the woods. I'm not so easily seduced. Platonically or otherwise."

"Of course," Fleur shoots back. "It's not as if you were trying to sneak my spaniel's pup into your pocket."

The giantess beside her huffs.

"She is adorable. Simply too pretty for some stuffy estate."

_Ah, she is prodding me for details on mother and home. Negotiation between her and the flock._

"Your pet wolf would be jealous."

"I have a large lap," she sniffs. "Plenty of space."

"Petal is likely to go into heat around the new year," Fleur suggests. "And mother's putting a man who attacked Elise through the Rite the next full moon. So I think some sort of evil alliance could be arranged if the runt was to find a good home."

The excited gasp beside her makes the candle on the table flicker out.

"Mother wants special privileges again, doesn't she?"

"She does, yes. I've no idea why. Isn't as if you, your sister or your cousins have needed help. All it takes for your family to succeed is a chair to study in, an ear to listen and perhaps bit of lenience in the halls when you're making a scene. When I can put them in a house headed by a veela, your performance is a miracle."

"I hear the geese are making a nuisance of themselves in the woods around Veld this year. Perhaps we might swap tales of my mother's exploits over Belgian waffles?"

Her mother is scandalized that Fleur can't cook. Domestic skills are another lure for a mate, after all. She can cook, but not complex things. Not in a kitchen. The fact that she can cook over a _campfire_ is no consolation to her mother.

"Perhaps. See me after your drill with Master Tashiro. Matters to discuss."

\-----

A spectral katana swishes though the air. Still wearing the samurai armor she died in, their dueling instructor leads the students in a round of applause.

George Thompson's wand is inches from her throat, an imitation flame-summoning spell crackling on the tip. Hers is out of her hands and tossed away farther than she can retrieve it it with her wandless magic still in its infancy.

"Match to Thompson!" she calls out. "Defeat by incapacitation. Death, if she were not a veela and resistant to fire. Still an impressive performance on the part of Delacour, children. In a triad duel on unfamiliar terrain, she led her team skillfully and made sure every wound they took was costly for the enemy. In fact, I daresay that were the lad subject to her allure there would have been no contest."

Next time, she's going to ask who's on the roster before coming to class. If she'd known she was dueling a gay man, she might have spent more time on her katas and less on her makeup.

Fleur clears her throat.

"Yes?"

"Look in my right hand."

Yua Hasiro's eyes track Fleur's to the pepperbox revolver she has pressed against Thompson's gut. She's holding the hammer back so that if she fell unconscious, the slacking of her hand would set it off. 

"Unexpected."

Always nice to surprise someone who died three centuries ago.

"You _tease,"_ Thompson jokes. "I deserve a tale of romance and your admirer's wasted swooning before you blow me open."

"Agree to disagree."

"Match is revised to a draw!"

Thompson flicks his wand to call hers back into her hand and jerks her upright. Fleur tucks her wand into the pouch in her jacket's sleeve and cinches the ribbon that keeps it still.

"How's Fredrick?"

His dark face splits into a grin at the mere mention of his boyfriend.

"Forgiving."

Fleur nudges him with her hip.

"What did you do this time?"

"In my defense, I did not know he was allergic to bonsai tress."

The laugh Fleur lets out is deeply unbecoming of the heir to the Lyons flock.

"You could have asked. Do men not know they have words?"

He shrugs and takes a draw off his water bottle.

"Keep reminding us, we'll get it eventually."

Murmurs ripple around the courtyard and Madam Maxine's shadow cuts across the entire crowd in the late afternoon light.

"I need a word with Mademoiselle Delacour. Tell the kitchens to save us a few platters, if you would, Master Hasiro."

"Of course."

The headmistress gestures down the garden path and strides away, forcing Fleur into a jog to keep up.

"Is something wrong?"

"Yes and no. Fleur, I'd like you to stay on as a graduate. Start your next studies here, not in Morocco. If needed, I can have the trust fund it at no cost to you."

_She's desperate if she thinks mother would take a handout._

"May I ask why?"

"Several reasons. You're an exceptional student. As a selfish woman, I want your doctorate to have our seal on it. More immediately, I need a Student General who is fierce, loyal, aggressive and popular with the faerie students. That is a natural post for a graduate student."

"Is there a threat to the school?" Fleur asks. Her wand seethes in her sleeve. Non-existent feathers beat against her face. She would swear she can taste her grandmother's favorite chocolates in her mouth. 

The headmistress opens a squeaking gate and suggests a bench beside the hedge maze's central fountain. 

"I've heard rumblings that the Brits intend to restart the tradition of the Triwizard Tournament in the winter. Too ashamed that the Irish are favorites in the Quidditch World Cup, I suppose. If they do, we will of course participate. In that case, I'd like you, your sister, and the flock members past fifth year to accompany us as entrants. Your sister would not be able to enter but I would never ask you to leave her behind."

"Happily."

"Also..."

Madam Maxine sighs.

"It is becoming clear that something is rotten in Britain. Your aunt has detected traces of dark magic in the ministry offices used by the ambassador. Judging by the campaign speeches for deputy minister posts, the old families seem to think that the muggle-born are to blame for their failing finances. I plan to invite Ilvermorny if the tournament is resumed. Let the Dupre twins prove the value of mixed marriage while their classmates scoff and sneer at their reverence towards old families a few cousin-wives away from uselessness."

"That will hurt our chances."

"It will, but perhaps we can organize a semifinals and take only the three leaders. We only trail Hogwarts by one loss over centuries. Ten of those wins happened with Dumbledore a teacher or the headmaster. Someday, Dumbledore will not be headmaster. On that day, I weep for Hogwarts. On that day, I suspect the old families on the board, ministry meddlers and the more devious professors will soon ruin the place. We once again become the only worthwhile institute of learning in Europe. Our traditional burden."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Master is used for the dueling instructor because I felt it made more sense to refer to a samuari using that rather than 'mistress' which while technically a neutral equivalent, has taken on unfortunate connotations over the years.  
> \-----  
> When Fleur refers to 'the Rite' she is referring to a veela-specific bit of magic called the Rite of Actaeon which flocks use to punish the worst cases of men and women who stalk, harass, or otherwise sexually pressure veela. If convicted at a trial of the assembled flocks, the person is permanently transfigured into a dog that does not age, meaning they live as a pet with generations of veela. They are given the closeness they desired but as an animal and a servant, not a lover. They retain their human mind for a few decades until it fades and they are simply unusually smart for a dog. The dog is invariably female, another layer of punishment for the men transformed.
> 
> Fleur and her mother enjoy hunting. It's their only shared hobby. Her mother uses it as a place to network and cut deals with veela, other witches and even muggle politicians. The family has been transforming their enemies to Brittany spaniels, deerhounds and mastiffs for centuries. Her mother keeps a pack of deerhounds, Fleur inherited the spaniels, and Gabby the mastiffs, though the latter do not hunt. Not so much hunting dogs as a pair of 250 pound bedwarmers.
> 
> Not officially legal in France but largely unprosecuted because the mental suffering of the human fades with the full transformation into the dog after a term shorter than the average magical sentence for rape, and because of the irony.


	6. We'll Always Have Mont Blanc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Hermione's school experiences probably explain her choice of "relaxing" hobby, Dr. Jean Granger can tell she raised a badass, and Fleur sees girl and forgets what brain does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some chapters now will start with little tidbits written as things upper level Hogwarts students are assigned, or that unsupervised Hermione might get ahold of and read in the library.

from **Deceived with Their Own Beauty: A Witch-First Deconstruction of the Veela Myth and the Injuries Wreaked on Witchkind by the Gwenievere-Morgana** **Dichotomy**  
  
 _"They ask me, isn't it tragic, to be a veela? To be here dying for lack of love? To bet your life and lose? To die so young? I am lucky. For fifteen years I have woken to the sun, flown in the fog before dinner. The winds themselves my girlhood friend. For eleven days, I had the man I love in my arms. Had pure, perfect love in my life. So, no...it is no hardship being a veela. This is a bet we place when we are born. I can think of no better thing to have bet my life upon than to bet it on love. Win or lose."_

\--final words of Fiorina Bellini, an Italian veela. She was interviewed at a muggle hospital in 1917 by the _Daily Prophet_ 's war correspondents. Her lover was an Ottoman officer slain on the front before their mating pact could be completed. An unusually rapid case of veela heartsickness killed her within the week.

* * *

**Hermione**

(Mont Blanc @ 3789 meters | July 21)

"I…" Hermione huffs. "...have fought killer plants, and unicorn-eating pipsqueaks."

She jabs her hand again, like she could pound the cliff-face into submission and force it to make a handhold for her.

"...survived a basilisk. A werewolf. Soul sucking prison guards."

After a few more smacks, she gets her aching fingers into a decent grip and casts her eyes around for a point to sink a piton.

"I am not afraid of you, _mountain_."

There. Stone that's hard enough to hold her and her mother's weight, and soft enough to pierce.

"You all right?" her mother hollers up.

"I'm good!"

Hermione checks her carabiner and leans back from the rock to line up. The stone yields on the first swing and with a few swings of the hammer, the piton sinks securely as an anchor on the seabed. If she enchanted the steel of her climbing axe, hammer pitons, and the carabiner before leaving? That's between her and the surprisingly relaxed French laws about underage wizarding. The French ministry's approach to teenage magic is wait and see rather than total bans like back home.

She drew the line and enchanted rope, though. She can't always count on _incarcerous_ and other spells when they capture some miscreant. Better to know how to tie some knots with department store rope and no magic besides the fingers of a girl with oral surgeons for parents.

Her mum thought she had gone 'howling mad' when she came back from first year and asked to go mountain climbing on their summer vacation. The summer between first and second year was all training, a few fitness camps and safety classes. 

Keeping fit during the year was easy. The muggle students wanted an exercise club and Hermione knew it was something she could provide. Something she could _research_ how to do that wouldn't take much time besides the actual doing it. Calisthenics, bodyweight exercises, group runs, some primitive track and field work in the fallow pumpkin patch. Hufflepuffs mostly, plus a handful of Gryffindors. The Ravenclaw girls who joined only did it so they could run into the forest and snog.

She and Harry took to exercising each day after class, jogging the near edge of the lake. Ron joined eventually, after a particularly notable anecdote about the giant squid and Malfoy's habit of having Goyle throw rocks. Once Ron heard the lake threw rocks back, he was in.

Thus trained in the summer between second and third year, mother and daughter took on Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in Great Britain. From it, Hermione could hold a map and point her mother to the valley and the lake that Hogwarts is built on. She could see it and her mother saw only grass, so Hermione described it.

Her dad managed it with them three quarters of the way but was done with this 'Granger women lunacy' at that point and simply agreed to meet them at their endpoint in the future. Hermione and her mother climb cheap so that he can afford to buy a ticket to the meeting point.

He turned nineteen different colors when Hermione suggested that this year, they tackle Mont Blanc, not the French equivalent of one of the smaller peaks they have dallied with. Her mother was less than sanguine about such a dangerous peak but her mom is one to listen when people explain their ideas. So when Hermione laid out her plans, talked risks, turning back points and contingencies as she laid out a timetable, her mother almost instantly relented. 

In exchange, next year they will merely go hiking in the lowlands 'like normal people' and actually use her great-grandmother's cottage in the countryside of Lyons, rather than renting it.

There was the small matter of training for the highest mountain between the Canadian Rockies and the Russian ranges. That and the fact that only a handful of climbers under age twenty attempt it each year, let alone as young as Hermione.

What scared her parents the most was the possibility, unlikely as it was, that something magical would happen to Hermione when she is too far away from the world for them to contact a mediwitch.

That's their concern. A sudden disease for which muggle doctors can't even stabilize her long enough to get to a place cell phone reception and call the network of parents, teachers, and graduates that snakes across Britain to plug muggle born parents into the magical world.

After sixteen hours in Madam Pofrey's office, Hermione was able to write back that only three known magical diseases fit the criteria of something that could kill her in one hour between onset and arriving at the hospital. There was a truly ghastly sort of acid-filled warts. A magical STD contractible only from lamia, vampires, thestrals and skrewts. A childbirth-related curse, one of the five prehistoric curses of blood and bone. Being pregnant isn't something that comes from nowhere, and her mother and father are above ground. No graves to rob. The third was described mostly in some untranslatable form of Latin and Pomfrey explained it was 'dying of a broken heart', a blanket term for cases where some curse or enforceable vow makes being dumped a death sentence.

Unlikely in the extreme. All she has to do is avoid love at first sight until tomorrow evening or at least, avoid love at first sight, swearing a vow of love that offers her own life as collateral and then breaking up before tomorrow evening.

Piece of cake.

* * *

**Fleur**

(Mont Blanc @ 3789 meters | the Goûter Hut | July 22)

The hut is crawling with English vacationers. When Maxine suggested easing herself into English people by mingling with tourists, Fleur had no idea just how ghastly the tourists in Paris, and Calais, and Nice actually are. She should have hexed that couple eating food-cart fish and chips in the Louvre on general principle.

English hunters proved an easier sort of company but they're few in number in France and most regulars to the birding and hunting areas she likes are her mother's friends or random Englishmen who meet her mother and decide that it would be chivalrous to keep an eye on Apolline. The front of her, below the neck, at the very least.

Fleur didn't connect until she met tourists with more athletic hobbies.

That's how she wound up here in this tiny, mirrored golf ball on the edge of a mountain. The place itself charms her. It could hardly be farther from Beauxbatons in style, richness of decor, or clientele. Here the beds are bunks of unpainted wood, the dining rooms are barracks-style and proper attire is headbands, parkas, and thermal leggings. Allowable conversations seem to be climbing, aches and pains of aforementioned climbing, mountainside wedding proposals, and any sport that doesn't involve a ball or formal scorekeeping.

The whole of muggle humanity simmered down until only the most sinewy, aggressive, masochist lot floats up. She knows witches who climb Mont Blanc, but she hasn't met another magical yet. They must avoid muggle shelters and guides, preferring cozy tents with charmed duvets and carrying bottle upon bottle of bubble-charmed water rather than oxygen. 

Her escort for the adventure is Jack. A rough-handed Irish muggle with with a rumbling voice, freckles, soft whiskers who sighs and strokes, meek as a dove. He's a Belfast man, so his view of the English is that of one under their rule, at least.

The hiker from last week, Rowan, was a superb specimen and her acidic personality was endearing. Pity she was Irish. Her view on the English is dim and not only for patriotic reasons. Personal too. Any casual probing of Rowan to learn how to navigate English life would result in unreliable intelligence. Perhaps when Fleur's not researching, she can come back for Rowan. See if that tingle on her tongue was the presence of a fellow witch. If her veela chooses Rowan, she can vanish into County Cork to birth a pack of green-eyed, red-haired children on her wife's behalf.

Oddly, Jack seems to have disappeared on her. Were she not a veela, she'd suspect that the cute paramedic stationed here had caught his eye. It would explain the girl's current absence from her post, as well. 

That's not a possibility. Fleur's a veela, the girl isn't. No methods exist in the muggle world to break an allure's grip. If Jack wanted the girl, he'd be seducing her at Fleur's behest and for shared enjoyment.

Like her dear Petal bringing her the duck and asking for just a small scrap of bacon as reward. 

"Miss?"

She snaps to and looks around.

"Yes?"

A beady eyed American with a frown carved into her face has sought her little corner out. 

"No dogs allowed."

"I didn't bring m-"

A whining sound catches her ears and warmth spreads from Fleur's lap to her soul. It's Petal. Her head is in Fleur's lap and her stubby tail is flying, wagging so hard the glossy fur on her chest swishes and waves. Petal is holding one of the portkeys Fleur uses for her dogs in her mouth. Pleased as could be. The beacon spell is on Fleur's wand so they can always reach her. Each dog's name is painted on with a dye from rendered down veela feathers. One touch and they appear by her side. A spell simple enough for a dog to cast, apparently.

"I did not realize she'd followed me," Fleur admits. "Petal…drop it."

The oaken rod rolls out of the dog's jaws and Petal hops up onto her lap.

"Yes," Fleur mumbles, leaning away from prickling whiskers and a questing tongue. "I missed you too. Now I have to figure out how to get you home safely."

"See that you do or I'll report you," the American huffs before stomping off.

"There was one bitch in that conversation, Petal. Wasn't you."

* * *

**Hermione**

(Mont Blanc @ 3835 meters | July 21)

"I can't see anything!"

"It's snow blindness. You got a bad angle when we landed, mum."

"Makes sense. I suppose if I tore my retinas, my head would hurt from the impact…"

Having had a chance to diagnose herself, Jean Granger's unusual and uncommon mind now decides that yes, in fact, it has time today to think about the fact she fell off a mountain.

"We could've died."

"We didn't. I got you. Easy."

Her own heart is battering against her ribs but her mother needs Hermione right now, not the other way around.

"What _was_ that? We were falling, and then you somehow pushed us away from the mountain and now we're up here."

"Wind spell to get us some distance, then I used one called apparition. Sloppy one. Supposed to just appear instantly, not what we did where you had to see us move. I am going to be in so much trouble when I get back. In Britain, you need a license to do that. Probably get written up in court."

She doesn't want her mother knowing that two serious violations of underage wizarding laws have happened the last two years just at the Dursleys alone and both times they got Harry a wink and a clap on the back. 

The ministry might send someone to customs to fume and bluster about secrecy. Dumbledore will tut-tut and wave his finger but never with less than a half-smile. Tell a story about something fifty years ago that her situation reminded him of. McGonagall will swallow her grin whenever she looks at Hermione, then remind the aurors she isn't under their jurisdiction for overseas use of magic. Harry will be impressed. Ron will be jealous. 

The usual ritual.

Her mother lets out a weak, gurgling sort of half-laugh, half-groan.

"So we did the entire rope and pulley thing and we didn't have to?" her mom teases. "Grounded for a month, young lady."

She could tell her mom that they could just apparate to the summit and enjoyed the view, but her mom might tell her dad and then she'd be a magical taxi service on holiday.

"Where are we, anyway?"

"Not far from the shelter, mum. I memorized its position on the mountain so I could use it as a landmark."

"Are you all right?" her mom sniffs. "Not your job to be taking care of me."

Hermione scoffs.

"I'll remind you of that when you're old, mum, and complaining about the nurses."

"Brat."

Hermione stays stiff and still as she can as her mother stands up, dragging herself upright with her daughter's hands as a compass.

"Help me inside."

"Sure, mum."

Just before they crack the doors, a woman spills out with a russet and white dog on a makeshift leash. The dog acts like it drank all the coffee in a cafe and enjoyed it so much it wants run off and find more.

"Sorry!" she hollers. "Petal, slow down!"

"Do you suppose she knows it's not a fashion show, Hermione?"

Hermione scoffs.

* * *

**Fleur**

(Mont Blanc @ 3835 meters | July 22)

She left for the manor at sundown. Petal needed to get home and Fleur needed to lock up the dogs' portkeys. Flimsy stood there at the door to the servant's kitchens with her arms crossed. Petal had been sassy to Fleur, but she slunk past the house-elf.

Wise beast.

Flimsy is keeper of the estate in all but title. Human servants who think themselves above the elves learn quickly and if Flimsy needs to correct her 'betters' either Fleur or Gabby are happy to provide an alibi for whatever non-lethal but humiliating prank is needed.

She returned in the middle of the night with some books to help her pass the time with Jack gone and her bunk empty. One casual pleasure for another.

He turned up at sunset with a fractured arm and a frostbitten face. The couple who found him dug him out of a little crevasse in the snow three feet outside the door. He was so far under that no one spotted him. Fleur snuck a Bits-B-Still potion into his cereal so that nothing falls off as he heals. Mass produced stuff. Perfectly frothed but lacking in potency after two week's climb. He was so far gone on adrenaline and morphine that he didn't realize the milk on his corn flakes was lime green and wriggling.

The helicopter will take him back tomorrow.

Fleur is done with the English. Their muggles seem expert at getting themselves nearly killed. Their wizards most likely are even better at it.

She'll go to Hogwarts, wave her wand, take home the cup if she can and then go home. Never be caught within sight of the Channel ever again.

The crowd of climbers who arrived last night shuffles all around her. This is a place for shuffling people. Tired limbs with owners determined enough to move them. Fleur herself is shuffling through the breakfast line when someone taps her on the shoulder.

"Miss?"

Threads of red-hot wire surround Fleur's heart and squeeze cruelly. A thousand sharp pricks on her neck and back, like hot needles diving into flesh for just an instant. Before the wounds can bleed, quills rise through them and feathers unfurl.

"Miss?" she hears, this time in English.

Fleur nods hastily. Though whether she's saying yes, _I speak English_ , or yes _, you are perfect_ or yes _, whatever it is you are going to ask so long as I can kiss you_ or yes, _I would rather die than fail to love you,_ she's not sure.

The girl's irises are a warm golden brown, like toasted bread and her pupils inky black. Her eyes like a goddess taking a starless night into her arms. Her face is darker, a fuller-roasted brown. Delicate cheekbones stand tall and thin as origami cranes. Untamed brown curls spill out under her cap, halfway filling her coat's hood. A desert river in the flood season. 

"I think some feathers fell out of your coat lining. There, at the collar. Let me."

Teeth catch the knit finger of a glove and pull. Fleur's never been jealous of thread, until now, until that black wool was pinched in _her teeth_ and brushed against _her lips_. Coolness spreads along Fleur's irritated and over-tender skin each time the girl's fingers make contact.

"Yeah. Not sure, sorry. There's a lot of them. If I didn't know any better, I'd think they were your fea-"

\-----

This is one of the sleeping rooms. Smells of antiseptics, melted snow, and sweat.

"Are you all right, love?"

"What happened?" Fleur moans.

"You fainted. Hit your head on the way down and a rib too."

Little by little, Fleur relaxes before she opens her eyes.

This is that heart-stopping creature reaching for the oatmeal but matured from nymph to goddess. After school, and university, and marriage, and children, and every pleasant memory that lives between. Memories and pleasures that Fleur should have given her.

Years have passed. Fleur failed. Those scorching coils around her heart will return. Tighten and tighten until the curse kills her as a bargain-breaker.

Her mishap must have been severe because Fleur's shirt is missing. Given how much her ribs hurt, that's probably for the best. She can feel the feathers on her shoulder-blades being ground into the cheap carpet.

The door cracks open.

"Mum? She awake?"

_Thank the Mother of Winds. Just a mother-daughter resemblance. There's still time._

"Don't worry," the woman hovering over her teases. "She's like you. Not exactly like you. Extraordinary in the general sense."

"OH MY GOD! MUM!"

"Can please I have my shirt?" Fleur mumbles.

"I think one of mine would fit her. Keep track of this for me?" she asks her mother, handing the book off.

The book's cover turns from a stained red to solid black when the mother touches it. Anti-Muggle enchantment, most likely.

"May I?" Fleur asks.

"Please. All her books from Hogwarts go all squiggly when I look at them. Be interested to know the title, at the very least."

"Calculations, Flows and Structures for Engineers of Experimental Enchantments," Fleur supplies. "The latest edition, too."

"What's it about?"

Fleur sighs. It's easy enough to explain a spell to another witch. Like explaining the taste of tiramisu. Hard to explain the tiny cosmos inside each spell, the cogs and counterweight. That's more like teaching someone to make tiramisu, step by step from seed to ingredients to dessert. In her experience at Beauxbatons, it takes meeting a either fellow enthusiast or else plenty of both alcohol and boredom to get someone interested in things that they don't need.

"Writing new spells."

Fleur curls a finger beckoning and the wand pocket of her coat shakes but nothing emerges. Chocolate and oranges ghosts across her tongue, the shadow of her grandmother's magic promising that the wand survives.

"I think she borrowed it. Said hers was acting up after the teleport spell. Wanted to use yours to compare it."

"Smart girl."

"I like to think so."

"Not teleporting. Apparating."

"Is there a difference?"

"Yes, and that's a good example of spell engineering. Spells contain elements and most spells build on others. So a spell to move a feather includes evocation of a straight column of wind in one direction to provide lift, and transfiguration to lighten the object to almost nothing and a charm so that the noise of the wind is silent to nearby creatures."

"Three ingredients," the mother replies.

"Precisely."

"There's two schools of apparition. Through and along. Apparate-through is pinching yourself into nothing and stretching yourself out at the destination. Instant but also prone to errors. Where you are going may not be what you think it is like, or how it was last time you were there."

"Good for errands you do every day, or a getaway in a pinch. Apparate-along is like turning yourself into ink and stirring the world. You flow to where you need to be. Tiring, and not as fast. But fast enough. Most important, you can see your surroundings and change your mind on the way."

"That sounds more like what we did. I fell off, she let go and grabbed me before we hit the ground. I remember zipping up the mountain and landing in the snow."

"Starting from midair? Not her first time, then."

"She said it was."

"Impressive. The need of the moment, perhaps. This book is very advanced...unless she is older than I might think, but simply is as ageless and lovely as her mother?"

"Flatterer."

The door swings open again.

"Well, my wand is definitely messed up. Yours is not happy that I tried to use it. Tulips kept sprouting out of the showerhead."

"Take mine. I can borrow one from my family."

Logically speaking, it's a terrible idea. Since meeting her mate Fleur has collapsed like a broken puppet, inconvenienced her mother and ruined their holiday. Her veela is screeching at her to _help_ and _offer_ and raking her talons on the inside of her skull to mock her for her failures. Woozy from her sudden feathering, Fleur can't come up with anything saner.

Her mate folds her arms and frowns down at her. 

Fleur digs her fingers tight into the carpet to resist the urge to submit. She's not just lovely, and brilliant and well read, her mate is beasted and whatever it is, it is mighty. She hasn't asked, but she'd be shocked if the girl wasn't an alpha. The space between them is heavy with her scent. The mother seems unbothered by the display. A privilege of being a muggle. Everything about Fleur the witch and Fleur the veela wants to show throat and expose herself. Let her submission and her affection apologize for the embarrassment caused.

"I can't possibly. I don't even know your name."

"Accept my offer, and I'll give you my name."

"Fine, but I'm only borrowing it. I'll need a way to return it to you."

"Of course."

_You will keep it. You will never return any gift of mine, for I will never regret giving one._

"Fleur Delacour."

"Hermione Granger."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fleur, you useless pansexual!


	7. Not Quite...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Hermione defends herself in the last way Malfoy expected, junk food is the foulest thing to summon, and Fleur calls in some favors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The letter Fleur writes to the other faeries is odd and stilted because it must take into account the tradition of tricky wording and deceptive dealing among the fae.  
> \-----  
> Latin vocabulary:  
> (grouped by spells cast)
> 
> "papyrus" = paper  
> "desicco" = desiccate or dry

**Notable Recollections of the Alumni of Hogwarts, page 247** _  
  
"I once agreed to negotiate with merfolk. For protection I had a sprig of sea coral and a fresh sea bass and any flattery and soothing I could devise. Due to a clerical error, I found myself facing nineteen princesses brought there to be married. The traditional groom's gifts are whole fish and a coral bouquet. There was a misunderstanding. I might've said something about the shape of one of their noses. Lost too much blood to recall after the fact. All told, I got my leg bit off and eight digits besides. That's the job. I will not deal with faeries. I would rather marry one of those mermaids and insult her behind her back to all the others than sit and take notes at a Roost, a Pyre or a Grove."_

\--memoirs of Salias Silverthorn (Hufflepuff, class of 1653). Salias was a renowned negotiator for the British wizarding world in the earliest days of the Ministry. A famously optimistic, calm, and kind man, he was specialized in hot-tempered magical creatures. He is responsible for the Forbidden Forest Accords with the Centaur King of Scotland, the Blood Extraction Agreement with the Vampire Assembly of Wales, and the Fisheries Non-Aggression Pact with the Queen Under the North Sea. Resigned in protest in 1708 when asked to sit in on a Greater Roost involving European clans of veela, harpies, and gynosphinxes.

* * *

**Harry**

(Quidditch World Cup | August 1) 

Malfoy and his pet trolls have Hermione backed up against the roast chestnut cart. The crowd pushing past them has paid little attention because the match is about to start. There is an auror a few tents back, but she was busy last Harry saw. A self-glazing ham and a randy chocolate lamb got into had a go, giving the neighbors an unwanted show and putting them off their own dinners.

Harry's too far away to help and he doesn't want to use magic here with aurors all over, checking tents and writing people up for swapping bewitched shoes and whatnot. Arthur Weasley had to confiscate six muggle artifacts wrapped with kitchen spellophane to disguise them as drumsticks and loaves of bread.

Goyle grabs for her sleeve and Malfoy pulls his wand out. She swings her bookbag into Malfoy's wrist. He yelps loud enough Harry can hear at the other end of the line. His wand goes flying. She swings the bag at Crabbe, who jumps back. A sort of hasty stumble, more like it. Crabbe isn't quick on his feet. Her bookbag catches him in the middle and he doubles over. Goyle gets her by the hand that's holding the bag so she punches him with the other one, right in his fat neck.

Malfoy gets to his feet. A spurt of purple gunk comes out of his wand, spattering all over Hermione and her bag.

She scrambles behind the chestnut cart before Malfoys next hex can hit her.

A woman in an cherry-red bowler hat is pushing her way through the crowd. Not the one with the ham and lamb problems. Either her ponytail is changing colors from a cheerful pink to a nasty green-brown, or the liquor Fred and George put in his hot cocoa was firewhisky, not cinnamon butterbeer.

Harry chases after her. The auror draws her wand and aims at Malfoy.

"Expelliarmus!"

Malfoy's wand flies from his hand, going end over end up in the air. It sails higher than the four-story office tent near the market, then drops through the cart's chimney and lands tip-down in the grill inside the chestnut cart.

Harry makes it over just as Hermione picks up her dripping, smelly bookbag. Fizzy liquid is frothing all over it. Smells quite a lot like grape soda. Sort of thing Collin Creevy liked to teach the students in dueling club. He was good at using snack charms to generate weird Muggle foods. No one bothers teaching a counter charm for something that's used to make a bit of bread when you're hungry before lunch. Collin's spell for spraycan cheese is nastier than most of the wart-growing spells. Smells worse, too.

Malfoy probably copied the spell when he wasn't too busy copying Hermione's test answers. Harry wonders if Malfoy knew he was using a muggle born's spell or if the greasy little snake just hates Hermione more than he loves flouncing around being a pureblood.

The auror summons some sort of glowing padlock, which she puts on Malfoy's wand before she hands it back. She keeps her own wand tip pressed against on Malfoy's chest. Another auror comes by, a stately black fellow in colorful robes who conjures three chairs and points to them. Crabbe and Goyle are whiter than usual, and Malfoy's shivering. Probably wasn't planning on getting caught at all, let alone by someone who doesn't care who his father is.

"You all right?" the woman asks Hermione over her shoulder.

Hermione doesn't answer. She's too busy putting ruined books and soggy parchment back in her bag. She runs off through the crowd.

"Hermione! Wait!"

"Sorry," he mumbles, looking between the two aurors. 

"We'll get her statement later. Go help your friend, Mr. Potter."

"How do you kno-"

When he arrived, he bought a puffy woolen hat shaped like a leprechaun because it went down over his scar. She's the first stranger to recognize him all night.

The auror smiles.

"Tell you later."

\-----

He finds Hermione in the small tent she set up next to the Weasley's. Except for the inside being far bigger than the tent the Dursleys set up for their family reunion picnics, it's not really any different than the muggle tents he's seen pictures of. Camping stove hooked up to a bottle of propane. Ordinary folding table, which she has her books set out on. Two sleeping bags, both the kind that they sell in stores. One doesn't seem to have been used at all and the other one is messy and has at least a dozen tears in the fabric. A couple plastic containers of food are sitting on top of a suitcase and Parvati's worn leather jacket is over the back of the chair Hermione's sitting on.

"You all right?" Harry asks.

She gives him one of her looks. He's pretty sure this look is the one when he's asked a question he shouldn't have.

"No, I'm not all right!"

She holds up a book with a bright red cover that's dripping globs of congealed soda pop.

"McGonagall gave me this. I can't even buy a replacement because I need a permit that I can't get until graduation."

"Charm it dry, maybe?"

She chews her lip.

"Maybe. I'm pretty sure the symbols in her notes she tucked into the back were glowing, though. The bookmark transfigures itself into a chain with a lock if I leave the book on the table too long."

Harry chuckles.

"Some book."

"Yeah," Hermione says with a small smile. "McGonagall thought it would cheer me up. But I don't think it's smart to alter or transfigure one of her old school books. This book's back cover knows more about that sort of magic than I do."

She pulls out her own wand and points it at the table.

" _Papyrus desicco_ ," she says in a stern voice that makes Harry wonder if her wand has been digging up her parent's back garden. A roll of paper towels comes out of her wand, promptly rolling onto the floor and bouncing out of the tent's flap.

"No, no, no!" she wails. She throws her wand back in her bag with an angry huff and pulls out a different wand, carved of pale wood with decorative swoops and flourishes.

A rose shoots out the tip of the wand before Hermione even says anything, bounces off the table up into the tent flaps and then lands next to her hands, sticking into the tabletop with a thorn. It sways and dances and tickles Hermione's nose with its petals.

"The wand fancies you, I think."

"Shut it, Harry. I messed mine up in France and this weird girl loaned me hers. Pretty sure she wasn't all there. She kept making little squeaking sounds when she talked to me."

A tiger's head pokes into the tent flap. Since first year, Parvati's beast has at least doubled in size. Happened to most of the students who got theirs right off. She's easily twice as long as an actual tiger and taller too. There's a fluffy Gryffindor scarf looped around her neck like a collar, and her wand is tied to it with some string. Parvati stands up straighter, bringing her golden eyes up to Harry's own. She huffs and it blows the hair back off his forehead. With a thump of her head into his shoulder, she pushes past him.

He laughs.

"All right, all right. I know who's who when it comes to Hermione. You two catch up and I'll go chase after the paper towels." 

* * *

**Hermione**

(Quidditch World Cup | August 1) 

Parvati is tucked in beside her. Her paw is on Hermione's lap and now and then, Hermione pets it. Crookshanks is napping on Parvati's haunches, as if the much larger cat exists solely to warm his furry backside.

A scruffy, red-haired head pokes into the flap. 

"Come on then, Hermione! Ireland won in a squeaker. We're having a party."

Growling somewhere deep in her ribs, Parv puts another paw on Hermione, this time across her knees.

"Seems my social schedule is occupied, George."

"I'm Fred."

"No, you're George. When you lie about which one you are, your tic is different than his tic."

"Bloody hell," he mutters. "You're too clever, you know that?"

"Gryffindor's grades last year say I'm barely clever enough. Unless someone starts studying besides myself, Dean, Lavender and this fine creature," she jokes, dragging her nails along Parvati's muzzle. "We fail. So I think it's best if I'm smart and you're funny."

"Oh, and all my parchment, notes, and books are enchanted. Any answer you copy will be dead wrong. My tutoring sessions, take it or leave it. And I reserve the right to kick people out of those."

"Right," George gulps. "Those are still in the abandoned washroom by the library, yeah?"

She nods.

"I'll be off, then. Oh, and maybe don't explain to mum how you can tell us apart?"

"No promises."

George leaves. Parv's furry head butts against her book, knocking it almost out of her hands.

"You're worse than Crookshanks! He has an excuse. He's just a cat."

With a long, lazy stretch, the tiger fades away, leaving Parvati in nothing but a Gryffindor house scarf. Hermione's hand is still on her back. Before she can let go, Parv grabs uses both of her hands to guide it lower, curling Hermione's fingers around her hipbone. In the cool air of the tent, goosebumps rise quickly out of her mocha skin.

"I have an excuse too," she says, brushing hair off Hermione's neck. She leans in, drawing a deep breath against Hermione's collar.

"Oh?"

"You smell nice and I like kissing you. That's the excuse."

Hermione shuts the book so fast it makes a _click!_ noise.

* * *

Addressed to Speaker for the Free Peoples,

Diplomatic Residence #8,

Place de Furstemberg, Paris. 

(Please find enclosed sufficient copies with unbroken wax seals and distribute accordingly to parties listed within)

Friends of my flock,

The truce between our families is expiring. Some of you owe us grand debts, some modest debts. Of each of you I ask something and to each of you I offer settlement of those debts. Settlement shall be in the form of the friendship of the Lyons flock for no less than five decades. Where I ask for goods, they shall be remitted at first convenience and will be paid twice value in gold. Where I asked for craft and cleverness, those who give it shall be paid twice wages and they shall live safe under my roof for the work, welcome to food, drink, and entertainment. Upon completion of the work, they shall surrender the plans and the tools to work them, at twice the cost of materials for tools.

From the other peoples, I ask the following:

•From the jagerin of Mytilene - three rods of petrified yew wood from the petrified forests on the isle of Lesbos, measuring fingertip-to-elbow with tools and craftsmen to work them. Each should be judged sturdy and pleasing to the eye by lovers who pass judgement in each others arms whilst in the ruins of the home of Sappho.

•From the jagerin of Blackstone Fjord - ingots of the star metals weighing the same as three newborn lambs, along with the services of a master smith and her journeymen, to be retained for the duration of the artifice's making. 

•From the shieldmaidens of Reykjavik - short blades and, narrow daggers and hand axes of sufficient number and quality to outfit two women of war. These must be silver-hafted and all runes and spell engravings gold-lined. The blades will be steel cored with star-metal jackets. The runes must be charged under a storm at sea by a priestess of Thor and the hafts by a priestess of Sif. These shall be quenched in the sea and hardened for seven nights in the belly of a Whitewing dragon trapped wild on the high seas in a midnight storm.

•From the vampires at Wicklow coven - the services of the quarter-elf artificer your coven keeps as a concubine, to be retained for the duration of the artifice's making.  
  


From those of veela blood, I ask the following:

•From the Buenos Aires flock - twenty one feathers of my choosing from the crown feathers of three phoenix hens, seven each. This gift shall be from a live beast, and the choosing performed at Pyre-Under-the-Henge, three days and two fortnights before Sahmain.

•From the Cairo flock - three locks of hair from the mane of a sphinx, and twenty one feathers of my choosing from a wild griffon. This gift shall be from a live beast, and the choosing performed under sea, in the temple of Bastet in the sunken city of Thunis.

•From the Geneva flock - a full lock of hair from the eldest and mightiest of your matriarchs.

•From the Kiev flock - dragon heartstrings from a Ukranian Ironbelly in sufficient number as to match the weight of a newborn lamb.

•From the Kyoto flock - twenty-one feathers from the nest queen's crown, plucked seven each under new moon, full-moon, and mid moon.

•From the Marrakesh flock - a full lock of hair from the eldest and mightiest of your matriarchs.

•From the Pima flock - the feathers of a thunderbird, sufficient in number to line a coat, tunic, breeches, and cloak and with proof of the beast's pedigree. 

•From the Tuscany flock - the services of your instrumentalists and clocksmiths to be retained for the duration of the artifice's making. 

•From the Xiangjing flock - the weight of a horse in silk, evenly split between venom-skinned worms, moon-shrieking worms, and worms of a mundane sort.

Thus is said, true and honest. So sworn by myself as queen in waiting, witnessed by and affirmed by a majority of my flock. 

Affectionately,

**Fleur Estelle Delacour**

Eldest daughter of and Apolline Delacour, nest queen of the Lyons flock. Birthed out of Apolline, sired by her lawful husband Petyr Nikoláyevich.

Eldest grand-daughter of Marguerite Delacour and her late husband Jonathan MacAllister-Delacour.

Signed and sealed with honorable witnesses on the Second of August, Nineteen Hundred and Ninety-Four. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this use, "star metals" refers to iridium. Iridium is abundant in outer space but not in the Earth's crust, so it is most easily found in craters from asteroid impacts. These incredibly expensive metals are the two densest on the periodic table and among the hardest.
> 
> In the ingot form used by shieldmaiden and jagerin blacksmiths, it is alloyed with platinum. Pure iridium is almost unmalleable (cannot be "mushed"), quite dense and hard but also extremely brittle. Adding platinum makes it less brittle and ductile (able to be etched/carved) while also slightly lessening the weight. The ability to notch, etch, and carve is needed for runecrafting.


	8. Veelas at Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Fleur has a morning after, and it turns out some veelas are posh and some are trashy.

**Notable Recollections of the Alumni of Hogwarts, page 18**

_"Much is said of our good breeding, and our gentle and polite ways. The muggles live blindly, kept from that we think them too simple to understand. Such good shepherds, we tell ourselves. We keep them calm, like we would a squalling babe. In truth, we are butchers keeping the sheep from seeing the knife."_

_"When the Bastille fell, witches were in the mob. When the nobles were thrown down, my French sisters did their part. They had watched during the uprising in the colonies as the Americans wondered: are we wizards and witches, with no allegiance but to keeping the secret of our gifts? Or are we human beings, as glad for reason, enlightenment, and democracy as our neighbors?"_

_"Two months ago, our American cousins piled into carriages, and onto their horses, and rode out to enjoy their suffrage. They elected a muggle who will decide the taxes and laws put on their butcher, their baker, and their carpenter. Jefferson, for all his faults and his wickedness on the issue of slavery, is a thinker. He will not ruin the experiment they have designed. He will not waste the revolution which saw witch and wizard patriots give their lives for muggle neighbors."_

_"Yesterday morning, I sat at tea while my husband talked about sending a wizard to Azkaban for joining the Royal Navy. While I sipped, Napoleon's men marched into the Alps with wizards and witches concealed among them. Our cousins in America vote in their elections. Our cousins in France march in their armies. They are no less a part of civil society than muggles. Josephine herself is a daughter of the Geneva flocks. A veela's ear bends their emperor's thinking and three of Beauxbatons' chevaliers have thrown off their petticoats, donned men's clothes and now lead columns of cavalry."_

_"Today, on either side of the ocean, my Americans and French sisters are citizens and witches. Their home is not merely some charmed pile of wood and plaster, it is the home of a patriot."_

_"I am ashamed to be an English witch."_

\--letter to the editor of the _Daily Prophet_ by Emily Bronson (nee O'Rourke) a self-taught witch and wife of celebrated Auror Richard Bronson, (Slytherin, class of 1782). 

Emily's agitation for muggle-magical unity and taking a full role as citizens of the British Empire made her a pariah in polite wizarding circles. She maintained an extensive muggle social circle and a muggle identity, campaigned for female suffrage with muggles, had bank accounts in the Bank of London she managed for her husband with gold taken from Gringotts and had parallel, obfuscated correspondence with muggles on issues where they could affect change in the wizarding world from the other side.

She was killed in 1838 during an attempt to poison Queen Victoria, who she knew by correspondence. Upon hearing of the illness in a letter, she recognized dark magic and cursed herself so as to divert the poison's effects. The trust that established the department of Muggle Societies, Politics and Trades at Hogwarts in 1839 was funded by her husband in her memory.

The Decriminalization of Cooperation Act of 1912 legalized wizards entering civil contracts, joint businesses, and military service alongside muggles. The last provision is credited with preserving England in World War I.

It had a companion law in the muggle Parliament, phrased in dull language establishing a new mustering post for the navy, which would be wizard-manned. It was privately referred to as Bronson's Law in captured correspondence. Those members of the House of Commons or Lords who knew Emily and knew the true purpose of the act showed their support by voting 'Aye, Emily was right' when the roll was called.

Forty-two muggle legislators voted with reference to Emily. None of them were successfully memory-wiped, indicating that a powerful llegimens had protected their minds.

It is by far the largest unresolved breach of wizarding secrecy in British history and second largest overall. Called a disaster of 'incredible severity' by the Minister of Magic at the time, it is commonly attributed to voluntary reveals by those witches and wizards influenced by Bronson's teachings. No follow-on breaches have occurred, suggesting that the muggles never shared it.

* * *

**Fleur**

(Delacour Estate, Villars-les-Dombes)

Fleur drags a knuckle down the shoulder blades of the woman beside her. Clarice. She is lean and wiry and bunched around her neck is a simple sports bra. The jeans stayed on, unsnapped and shoved down when they tumbled into bed. Fleur waited for her to sleep before getting up to strip and come back to bed.

The more she got her hands on her, the more Fleur could let her mask slip. In the heat of the moment she doesn't have to be this flawless, ethereal being. This magical smokescreen of flawless beauty that polishes over her actual flaws. On lazy mornings like this, her unblemishable skin and untangleable hair don't matter. She is with a lover she chose and they are enjoying each other's bodies and for a pleasant instant, that's what matters, not her allure. Enforced infatuation can become passion, at least for a heartbeat or two.

She supposes that non-veela women enjoy life that way, earning love and relishing it for the victory it is. Their love affairs are not painted over with doubt.

Bone and sinew dance under darkly tanned skin as she turns her head to look over her shoulder at Fleur. Brown eyes and a mess of black curls falling around a dark face. 

"Mmm, morning..."

"...Fleur."

"Fleur…" she sighs. 

"I'm Clarice."

"I know. I just didn't want to make you feel inadequate by reminding you of your own name."

"Asshole. Sexy, but still an asshole."

Fleur chuckles.

"Breakfast?"

"Please. I'll be down when I find my legs."

"So not for a while then?"

"As God as my witness, that last one violated the laws of physics. Did I really hit my head on the headboard? Or did I dream it?"

Fleur chuckles.

"It was not sexy, checking you for a concussion."

Petal pops up at the foot of the bed, her chin resting on Fleur's ankles. Clarice reaches over and shakes her furry ears.

"Yes, I borrowed your mom, didn't I?"

The Brittany gives a tiny bark and wags her stubby tail.

"Quite the ambassador for her, aren't you?" Clarice jokes.

Petal's caramel-brown eyes bore into Clarice's and she huffs.

"Why yes, I _do_ like it here."

Leaf, the next-youngest after Petal, puts her paws on the window and growls softly at someone outside. Footsteps crunch up the gravel of the driveway.

The doorbell trills in the downstairs hallway. Her friends, the staff, and Gabrielle are in the habit of knocking after she asked.

"Stay here, please. I'll chase my mother off and come back."

\-----

"Leggings? _That_ shirt? Really? What does wearing that say about you?"

Fleur glances down. The shirt is Clarice's, chosen because it was the one that landed closest to the door. She grabs the hem and pulls it out so she can read the writing.

"It says 'I talked with the parrots at Parc des Oiseaux' and it has an orange parrot on it."

Apolline sighs.

"You never did value presentation."

Talking about this sort of thing with her mother always gives her a headache. A headache born of a well meant but painful lecture on lifestyle doesn't mean Fleur has to make it worse by denying herself caffeine, so she drags herself over to the cold press and dumps in some grounds.

Her grandmother, Marguerite is the most fearsome creature Fleur has ever met. She is as luminous and lovely as a dragon is dangerous. She married a hard drinking, bawdy Scotsman whom she met in a shipyard during the Vichy regime. He turned a wrench half of his working life and had with an unseemly poem to go with every bit of grandfatherly wisdom Fleur ever received. She takes after her grandmother. She wants to love like her grandmother did, fanatically and without shame and wants to live like her cousin Petra, who teaches Russian spell dialects to Japanese witches in the ancient halls of Mahoutokoro, or aunt Anuk, who served as an operative for the Israeli intelligence services during the seventies and eighties. 

Apolline married Petyr, a Russian biology professor with wealth left over from the Czars and a settlement from a marriage to a ghastly Dutch twat. The sort of belittling, abusive shrew so unvarnished as to get ripped apart by divorce lawyers in the 1960s. Her mother would move through elite circles even without the veela accounts to draw on. She is an apex predator hunting at parties, diplomatic galas, and symposiums on women's health. 

"The girl you have hidden upstairs smells delicious, I'll admit. But if she's not one to share, she's not the one to be with. Besides, you could have so much more, daughter."

"I came to ask you to come to the drawing room at three. Paulo is coming from Madrid. You know how his nephew gets. Take him upstairs before you get on your knees this time, eh? He'll think you cheap if you try and mount him in the coat room. Again," she jokes.

"You should have time to dress up, at least."

Her mother tilts her hand so she can read the time on a gold-cased watch on the inside of her left wrist.

Apolline uses her allure to catch an eye and channels her veela's heat until no price is too high for another night. Expensive finery is traded for a chance with the sought-after mistress of French and Spanish professor, ministers, and bankers. Her honeyed hair is bound up in a ribbon of gold silk from one lover in her stable. The gown is a favorite, crushed velvet red as blood. That decadent thing no doubt hung over the curves of princesses and queens when first sewed. A dress from one lover, a hairband, a watch. Decoration after decoration. Most are probably heirlooms denied daughters and trophy wives.

The necklace Fleur's father gave her hangs around Apolline's neck like a waterfall of silver chains that cascades to end in a roughly shaped hunk of lapis lazuli the same midnight shade as a Delacour veela's eyes. No one but Fleur and Gabby have been told how the necklace matters most of all, because of where the central stone rests just above the heart.

Fleur used to feel underdressed, shabby even when her mother would visit Beauxbatons. The Student General's jacket she worked so hard for is unmarked indigo wool with crimson silk in the collar, silver chains at the epaulet and silver clasps on the cloak and coat. Next to that kind of gown, it looked like those slimy tunics British elves are forced to wear. At her swearing in last week, her mom glided through the crowd like a swan on a pond with Fleur ducking and twisting between the over-eager teachers and students flocking to flirt, swoon and proposition. 

"I won't be coming."

A golden eyebrow rises sharply and her mother's hand stills halfway to the coffee cup's handle.

"Beg pardon?"

"I won't be coming. Give the rascals my regards. Busy. I've work to do before I start back to classes, and I'm preparing for something with Madam Maxine and the Vice Minister for Foreign Affairs. I also need to go for a passport photo."

"Jinks could help. Deft hand at forgery, that fellow."

Mere mention of the chubby, jovial house-elf makes Fleur smile. He's not just Fleur's favorite, he's _everyone's_ favorite. His collection of ludicrous red sweaters grows each solstice.

"I don't need to gain five pounds on his cooking and I need the documents to pass machine inspection."

"Whatever for? Are you expecting to be checked through by a robot?" Her mother jokes, wiping the lipstick off the rim of her up with her finger.

Fleur winces. She wanted valid muggle documents rather than near perfect forgeries in case Hermione's parents are involved in an outing. Her allure will not affect them any more than it does Hermione and they don't seem the type to go along with illegal activity. Not that she would bend their wills with allure even if she could.

If she admits why she might need to talk her way out of an administrative jam without using her allure, she admits not only that she found a mate but that Hermione is muggleborn. Hard to know what her family thinks about that when no one in the immediate family has been mated to a muggleborn in centuries.

"Fleur…" her mother whispers. "You found him. You found your mate."

"Her."

"Her, then. Does this have anything to do with the panicked call I got from Aaron in New York? Something about a massive withdrawal of gold and artifacts?"

"She doesn't know, mother. She doesn't know and..."

Fleur sinks to the table, hiding her head under her arms.

"I need a gift for the ritual anyway. I went with something practical because she's that sort of person. But also to apologize. I made a fool of myself seconds after meeting her. She saw my feathers, and touched them and...it felt...like everything I'd ever feel was in the tip of her finger. I fainted. Her mother's a muggle doctor. She had to rescue me."

Apolline laughs, a sound like someone shaking wind chimes. She brings her trembling hand up to cover her grin so it's not so obvious how much she's enjoying this. Small mercies.

"Truly?"

"Yes. It was mortifying."

"Mate and mother-in-law were duly impressed, I'm sure. Gabby will love this. So, daughter, my pride and joy...tell me _everything._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every nation's treatment of house elves is different and laws vary accordingly. British house elves are often slaves, bound to a particular bloodline or what is called "blood bound". They are unpaid and are not allowed clothes.
> 
> French, American, Russian and Italian elves are place-bound, having tied themselves to the land. If a manor is built upon that land, and terms are struck, the family takes charge of the elves and in return, must pay the elves for upkeep of any property put upon the _elf's_ land, creating de-facto wages.
> 
> This approach leads to curious cases of homeless camps kept sparkling by an elf bound to the underground spring below the freeway, or tiny shacks in bogs with a house elf tending to them in the off seasons between deer hunts.
> 
> Elves kept by fae wizards and witches are often bound to secret phrases, oaths, or even abstract concepts like the Pact veela struck with their goddess, or an individual vampire's unique philosophy on death. The elves serve any who honor that concept and stop serving them the moment they betray it.
> 
> A unique case is the elves bound to Hogwarts, which have been known to damage the grounds, refit furnishings with ones more to their liking, argue with teachers, and in some cases deface textbooks. This suggests they are not place, bloodline, or idea bound. It is as if they are not bound to any discernible entity or specific aspect of the land, though it is believed the castle is at least partially sentient and they may be bound to aid the pursuit of knowledge itself.


	9. To Die In the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where it turns out Draco Malfoy is less impressive than he thinks, and the final of the Quidditch World Cup could maybe have gone better for everyone except Fleur who had a great time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mssr. = Monsieur abbreviated = "Mister" in English)  
> (Mlle. = Mademoiselle abbreviated = "Miss" in English)
> 
>  **Canonical spells:**  
>  "avada kedavra" - the killing curse  
> "episkey" - healing spell  
> "reducto" - blasting curse  
> "wingadium leviosa" - levitation charm  
> "stupefy" - stunning curse
> 
>  **Non-canonical spells:**  
>  "sangius creare" - blood conjuring and transfusion spell, one of the Eight Sanguine Charms of healing magic that are related to blood

**After action report from Burgundy Regional Commander, sent to the Superintendent of the Soldiers Sorcerous of the Republic of France on August 8, 1979**

_We had been chasing reports on the muggle police radios about animal attacks around the full moon. Bite pattern and behavior fit with a werewolf. Sent four scouts out, two and two. Second party encountered nineteen dark wizards and three weres on the night of August 6, skulking around a vineyard near Beaune. Mlle. Bonnart took at hit from a slicing curse but her partner got the bleeding stopped. First party bottled them up and shot down one who apparated. I called in the whole squadron._

_It was bad. Robe styles were English and the wands we took were Olivander's but their primary mode of combat was the killing and torture curses, supplemented with shield spells. One on one, or outnumbered, they'd be hell to deal with. Duelists who got used to killing, not fighters. They didn't deal well with shifts to the field, coordinated attacks, harassment by Patronus forms, or use of muggle devices._

_A passing party of Beauxbatons students offered aid and we put them on the ridge with rifles and suppression curses on the ones who apparated and that tilted it our way._

_We lost Msrs. Corneau and al-Atrash and Mlle. Lavinge and six muggle police. Three of ours and four of the Beauxbatons girls needed hospitalization._

_We killed fifteen and took three. One of the wolves escaped. Name's probably Fenrir. All I know is he had a were-bitch with half her teeth slobbering after him and the tattoo on her ass said Property of Fenrir. Every prisoner we took had that mark the British press are muttering about: snake tattoo on the arm._

_They stayed quiet until I told them that the Daily Prophet knew they were captured and said they were talking. Two threw themselves against the anti-apparition charms until they were beat to a paste. The surviving prisoner was a were, probably a lynx by the markings. She talked. Seems they follow some pure-blood lunatic called Voldemort._

_Additionally, identical triplets that had been bitten (one witch, two muggle girls) aged about six were taken and placed with an adoptive family in Sweden who volunteered for were-victim fostering.  
  
  
_This report provided the first hard proof of Death Eater activity on French soil, coming two years before Voldemort's first defeat at Godric's Hollow in 1981. A following attempt two weeks later by more than a hundred Death Eaters was put down by a mobilization of the Soldiers Sorcerous, the Ladies' Hunt and Beauxbatons militia students of age along with a handful of individual responders. In the course of the fight, an unincorporated village in the southeast of the country was leveled and sixty three muggles were killed.

Eight death eaters escaped and nine were taken prisoner. The rest were killed.

No attempts followed.

The nineteen French witches and wizards killed in the engagement were awarded the Ordre national de la Légion d'honneur (National Order of the Legion of Honour) in _Grand-croix_ (Grand Cross) grade by the muggle government using nominations back-channeled through the Ministry of Magic, along with planted eyewitness accounts of various heroic deeds across the nation. These awards represented an increase of nearly one-third in the order's highest echelon.

Additionally, five of the nine wizards were veterans and two of the witches as well. These were awarded posthumous military honors. One active duty radar technician, Harriet Marcon, was killed while sealing the gates of the airbase she was stationed at, thus protecting several nuclear weapons being retrofitted in a lab on base.

She was awarded the _Médaille militaire_ (Military Medal) in a public ceremony. A former Student General of Beauxbatons, Harriet is the only person buried at a French military cemetery to have been buried with a wand.

The magical community remembers the fallen as "The Noble Nineteen" and all civil offices and public functions of magical government shut down on the 19th of each month.

* * *

**Fleur**

(Quidditch World Cup | August 8)  
  
  


Holding up her cousin's note, Fleur taps it with her wand. It once belonged to her great aunt, who asked it return to the family upon her death. Hardly the same as her own, much beloved wand, but competent for a month or two. Veela-hair cores are special that way. So long as the flock loves each other, any veela who uses the wand shall find it a friend.

The note glows in the dying sun and a compass of red ink appears from the bottom corner. It points east and when Fleur steps back a few paces, it adjusts.

She follow her cousin's tracking spell through the Bulgarian part of the camp and into the general admission area before finally finding herself in the heart of the Irish enclave, where the team and the officials are saying.

"Not public," grunts a massive fellow with shaggy blonde hair outside the tent. The man has had the worst day of anyone in Irish history–-impressive, in the scheme of things-–at least if the expression on his face is to be believed.

Fleur reaches up with her free hand and pulls the tie off of her ponytail.

"'Ere to see my cousin."

"Mmm," he opines. "You seem like her sort. Go on then."

Inside the Irish team's mess tent, there's a particular sort of quality to the air itself. Like syrup on the tongue, or cool water on the back of the neck on a hot day. Plucking a pear from a bowl of fruit, Fleur tears into it. It tastes like cinnamon and candied pecans as much as it does the fruit itself.

Veela magic, like melting too-sweet candy on the tongue and getting a massage at he same time. A cloud of allure thick as the tea party she had with her friends and flockmates at school.

"Fleur?" calls a voice from behind a cotton divider.

She throws it open. Isolde is being fucked by the team's beaters, rising and sinking slowly onto their cocks. Each time she drops down, she gasps out a puff-puff-puff and her head falls back. Impressively, both men are still conscious despite being in the clutches of a full-blooded veela and Isolde's skin is dripping with sweat.

Isolde's wife is the Irish chaser, Danielle Moran. Danielle has stolen the Bulgarian team hat and perched it atop her sweaty red curls. Her jersey is torn nearly in half, leaving the 'ra' of Moran in a scrap on her lap. She has a chair pulled up to the edge of the couch beside the miniature orgy and has looped her legs loosely around Isolde's torso. Her left hand clutches a bottle of whisky and her right is lazily tracing circles on Isolde's skin.

Danielle gives her a butchered 'Bonjour' so tainted by a vodka-sharp Limerick accent as to be nearly nonsense, but so eagerly given with a blush that Fleur can't help but switch to French herself.

"Don't let me stop you, Isolde. Though this isn't quite what I'd expected when you said you wanted me to meet your mate."

Isolde gives Fleur a timid little wave, hardly more than a wiggle of the fingers.

"Fleur, Danielle Moran. Danielle, Fleur Delacour. Second cousin. We went to Beauxbatons together and I spent more time with her flock than my mom."

"Second cousin?"

"Fourth. Veela thing," she adds when Dani's eyebrow shoots up. "Large families, lots of daughters. There's usually someone in each flock who likes to do genealogy and it fits nicely between rounds, or when a mate is off at work. So I hear. Danielle, why do you let your wife do these things?"

Danielle chuckles, fisting Isolde's glowing hair in her hand and pulling her head back.

"Two reasons. For the kissing," she replies. She crushes her lips to Isolde's. Her palm lands on Isolde's backside with a sharp crack. Isolde jumps, almost dismounting the men in the process. Danielle shoves her back down with hands on her shoulders and a a long, filthy whine escapes the veela, only to be swallowed. She breaks off long enough to lick her lips before putting a finger on Isolde's tongue, like a bookmark keeping a favorite page open.

"This time tomorrow, we'll be back home fifty miles from anyone and she'll want more of the same and come at me like a rabid possum. Fit to claw my eyes out."

"If Ireland won, I got to kiss her often as I wanted for a week. If it was close, she got to use one of her coupons from the honeymoon. Just because she likes men too, doesn't explain her wanting to have a go at these trolls."

"Single," Isolde hums. "And conveniently located. No offense, lads."

A pair of grunts suggests none was taken.

"Compromise is the key to a happy marriage," Danielle jokes.

Fleur sighs and goes over to the table in the corner, dropping her handbag onto it and covering it with her hat. One of the reserve players pokes his head in, makes a strangled sort of chirp, and looks at Fleur. Extremely flattering, to be noticed like that when Isolde is present, naked and sizzling with sex magic. She shakes her head but blows him a kiss. Have mercy on the shy ones, her grandmother always taught her.

"I was invited to _dinner_ , however."

"Have you tried muggle pizza?" Danielle asks. "I think there's a place in Dover that's good. Apparate over and pick some up, maybe?"

"Sounds good. Should I expect to watch the cheese be licked off, Isolde?"

The frown denies it but the sparkle in her cousin's eyes suggests that Fleur should brace herself for a parade of obscenities involving mozzarella.

\-----

"You didn't, Fleur! You fainted and tried to bash your own head in?"

"I think it's sweet."

"Thank you, Danielle. And what happened to you, cousin of mine, when you saw this one?"

"Ipanickedandranoffthentrippedandhitmyfaceonabroom."

"Isolde! Tell me slower," Fleur jokes. "But you can keep blushing, if you want."

Danielle smiles.

"Last February, I was in Madrid, browsing one of the sports shops. Bulgarian team was in for some body paint."

"Really, just the veelas. We wanted the discount, so I told the shop keeper it was for team purposes rather than say what we were actually going to use it for."

Danielle chuckles.

"Oh. Well, I'm sure having a hundred veelas crawling all over his shop didn't exactly hurt his business. Anyway. I'm there looking for a strap for my cap because I had a game in Sweden the next week and it kept flying off during windy matches. I reach for the burnt orange leather dye the same instant she reaches for the red face paint."

Isolde slumps back in her seat and pull's her stolen overcoat around her bare shoulders.

"I turned and looked. Feathers came out so fast I tore holes in my blouse. I wanted to say something but I panicked. Ran out of the store, right out of the magical district. Hid in a muggle nightclub."

Danille shakes her head.

"She left her wand behind. I think it wanted to go back because it started dropping tulip petals. Dark if I was getting colder, bright if I was getting warmer. So I stumbled around for about seven hours before I found the club. Muggle lesbian club, fittingly enough. Find this little bird hunched up in the staff-only hallway with a half-drunk martini, staring at the feathers on her wrists."

"Dani asked me if I wanted to dance. You said something really sweet, darling. You said 'cute girls scare me too, and you terrify me' and offered your hand."

"That's when we realized the janitor's closet door she was leaning against was unlocked. Soon as I pulled her away, the door came open. Mops and buckets and spray bottles come tumbling out."

"I tried to back up and tripped on a broom. It swung up as my face swung down."

They laugh, almost at the same instant.

"First date was in a muggle emergency room," Danielle explains. "After that, things moved pretty quick. The top teams end up in the same city quite often, so we didn't go long distance for any real stretch of time even when we were both on duty. She explained what a veela was, and what her feathers meant about me. From there, I just acted like a stereotypical lesbian. Full U-Haul. Dropped my sponsored flat for a shabby thing near the river that we barely fit in if we sit on each other's laps. We painted it together. Two months ago, booked an appointment with a judge. Formally doubled my flannel collection."

Fleur twirls a loose bit of mozzarella and pops it into her mouth.

"Sounds like happily ever after."

"The veela ceremony is next summer," Isolde adds. "I'd be honored to have you as my second for it. You could bring your mate, too. Don't lie, Fleur. You were never good at it and I see the down come in on your collar when blush. When you think about them."

Fleur rubs the back of her neck, finding her feathers thicker, stiffer and more mature than they were in the mountaineering hut.

"She's younger than I am."

"How much younger?" Isolde asks. "You're not exactly ancient yourself and I'd love to do a double ceremony."

Fleur sighs.

"Judging by her schoolbooks? Fourth year of Hogwarts. I think she might have started late, though, because she's quite tall. Fourteen, but probably fifteen. I don't want to ask her for anything her parents wouldn't like and they're muggles. College, career, all that. Not just graduate and get a job."

Isolde winces.

"Ouch. So, come do a betrothal, instead. Even if you weren't her mate, I can see from the look on your face you'd wait for her. And if she's not ready to promise you by New Year's, she's an idiot and I'm a cave troll."

* * *

**Hermione**

(Quidditch World Cup | August 9 @ 1:09am)

  
  


Hermione can't sleep. Something is just _wrong_ with that borrowed wand but she can't decide if it's good wrong or bad wrong. Wands have allegiances and according to experts, even some intelligence. They aren't known for flirting, even if they're a darling little rosewood number with an artful carving of a nude woman on the curved hilt that rests in the palm. There's also the matter of the change in the roses. Bright, bloody red when she was trying to clean the textbooks, almost as if it could feel her frustration. It spit out three pale, pink roses that burst into a shower of tickling petals just as Parvati shifted back to her tiger and nestled against Hermione's side.

Now a sickly black rose is hanging from the tip. Hardly some gothic symbol of dark and dangerous love, it looks more like the plant it came from was sick or even mutated.

Parvati's huge, furry chest rises and falls slowly under her fingers. She wishes her parents were easier on Parv, rather than leaving her halfway between fear and relief. Her father's homophobic comment a month or two ago wasn't directed at Pav at all, but rather some muggle chemist their shop competes with. It was answered with an acidic look from her Pav's mother. She pulled her husband aside into the dining room as Hermione browsed the books scattered in their kitchen – family after her own heart, leaving books all over – and went into a half-shouted tirade that simmered with anger. More than warranted for a stranger and probably meant both as a hint to him and reassurance to Parvati. She laid into him about embarrassing their house in front of a guest then hissed out a lethally cold warning about not being 'the wrong sort'.

The wrong sort means racists and bigots, not muggleborns. At least when it comes to Sumana Patil. Refreshing, that.

Seems the pureblood families of India are a bit farther along and with the Patils, England gets the benefit of some imported progressiveness.

Chances are good Parv's mother knows, and perhaps was even signaling that no matter what, she has one fiercely supportive parent. Which might be more than Hermione herself has. She's kept up with her parents, particularly her mum, but mostly written about academics. Isn't as if she gains anything by telling them about how she forgets the question she was about to ask a professor whenever Daphne Greengrass turns away from Pansy and glances her way. Daphne's usual scowl softens into a sort of blankness with an eighth of a smile. Quarter-smile, tops. If she in the class, a predator's growl simmers in her still-human chest and Daphne goes back to pretending to give a fuck about what Snape's talking about, wisely deciding not to pit her creamy-pale python form against an unnaturally massive and unnecessarily territorial tigress.

Third year potions was a minefield. The girls who had their beasts all seemed to have got accelerated puberty out of the bargain, and more than a few figured out their status in the process. People keep telling Hermione she smells like an alpha – she's not fond of the idea of smelling in _general_ – which is mental seeing how she has no beast and if she doesn't change soon, she never will. Certainly a late bloomer isn't going to turn out to be some sort of king of the jungle.

Lavender is the worst like that, not least for sharing a room. Makes a point of hunching over her homework, so Hermione can see the back of her neck. As if she were a kitten waiting for its mum to grab it by the scruff. One day last year, Hermione came back in a mood and Lavender turned into her cute little kid goat--seemingly involuntarily--and bolted, colliding horns-first with her own wardrobe.

Lily's easier. Like Pav, she prefers to sleep in her beast form. The creamy pink dove with the curious spattering of red feathers around the neck is thoroughly disinterested in basically everything. Even when she shifts, the little vial stays on the cord around her neck. Hermione's about two thirds sure the vial is packed with dirt from her home in Kildaire and silver dust. Adding that to Lily's habit of sneaking past the house elves to cook her own meal with all the meat rare and practically dripping makes it a safe bet that Lily's a vampire, or half at least.

She curls her finger, beckoning to her wand and then the borrowed one. She lays the rosewood across her lap and aims her own wand. Her wand's damage, or possibly illness hurts her in a way that she doesn't understand. Her logical brain – the one raised by top-of-class doctors – says it's nothing but vinewood, masterful woodworking, and the heartstring of what McGonagall 'a notable' Scandanavian Stormwing dragon. It's also a friend of sorts. The second she ever had in the wizarding world after McGonagall herself.

"Right," she whispers. "Let's see what airheaded nonsense your airheaded mistress got you into, eh?"

Wandlore isn't exactly the most thrilling of magic. Too mystic by far for her tastes. She got practice at it anyway when Ron managed to mangle his wand in second year. Professor McGonagall took pity on Ron, by way of teaching Hermione the basics of wood transfiguration and mending charms so she could cobble the poor thing back together. That's also how Hermione found out that her mentor's wand was also dragon heartstring. Most notable experts in transfiguration, too. A vibrating heartstring gives off, highly focused and intense flows of magic and is favored by warriors and those who slice up reality, not people. Unicorn hair wands are unparalleled for healers and divination, even charms. They sometimes overdo it, like they want to make the owner happy. Phoenix feather wands are so unpredictable it's like throwing a giant pair of dice at God's head and hoping he ducks.

A revealing charm from her own shows a ghostly image of the inside of the borrowed wand, as if the tip of hers was a flashlight so powerful it showed the inside of a solid object. It's not one of Olivander's, which makes sense. He uses red silk wrapping around most of his cores, although he did confess to Hermione that her wand's wrapping was gold chain from a necklace left by a dear muggle friend of his when she passed.

The diamond near the tip must be ornamental. Diamond is magic-neutral, for some reason. The only stone that is totally so. This wand's core is naked, strangely, and far thicker than usual in proportion to the shaft. A tightly corded bundle of golden threads fills most of the shaft, wrapped in rosewood not much thicker than a few stacks of foil. It's not unicorn hair (too dark in color) or dragon heartstrings (not thick enough) or thestral hair (she's not gone mad) and every single strand is slender as spider silk and bright as a candle.

"Whatever are you made of, you weird little twig?"

The black rose hanging from the tip bursts into flame.

In the distance, someone screams.

\-----

Hermione pokes her head out of the tent flap.

Ginny is in the crowd, far off but easily spotted with her fiery hair whipping behind her, easy to spot a half-mile off. She's sprinting for the tent and trying to cram a windbreaker over her nightdress. Harry's with her, and Ron.

Mr. Weasley isn't, nor Bill or Charlie. Fred and George either.

 _None of the able bodied males..._ Hermione realizes.

On the hill to the east, near the muggle village, dozens of tents are on fire. A crowd of people is crashing this way like the tide coming in. Throughout the crowd, little gray tangles of light pop up as the adults and the older children apparate out.

"Pav!" Hermione hisses over her shoulder. She calls her wand to her hand. Malfunctioning or not, it's probably better in a fight than a borrowed one.

"PAV!"

Her girlfriend snaps awake, flicking her ears in annoyance.

"Shift back, Pav. Something's wrong. The camp's being attacked."

Someone's hand grabs Hermione before she can pull back inside the tent and it's no-trespasser charms. Someone throws her to her knees in front of the tent, which promptly winks out of existence. She can't see the men's faces but their robes are ink-black and the one to her right has a bit of blood on his.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Potter's pet mudblood."

"Remind me, Bobsy, was she a 'take alive' or a 'dead or alive'?"

"She's a spare."

"Suppose her body will do just as well for a lure. AVADA KAD-"

* * *

_"In the defense of the Republic and her people, I pledge my sword, my strength and my sacred honor. I shall meet any threat, within or without, magical or mundane. I shall not let my fellow citizens suffer while it is in my power. I shall not let my countryman bleed where I could bleed in his stead. I shall not let my countrywoman be battered when I could take the blow. I shall not let our children perish when my life could be spent in their place."_

_"I, Fleur Estelle Delacour, do so solemnly swear to honor this vow upon my magic and my life."_

\-- **Citizen-Sorcerer's Oath of the French Republic:**

_"The comparison between a fully-shifted veela and an angel is a natural enough one. Both winged, both glowing, both beautiful. What many forget, and what few intruders live long enough to realize is that it's not chubby, smiling little baby angels. No. If veela are angels, it's the sort of angels whose wings burn so bright it cooks your eyes to look at them."_

**\--excerpt from 'Lovely and Deadly as the Sun: a Military Analysis of the 1958 Veela Uprising in Romania '**

* * *

**  
Fleur**

(Quidditch World Cup | August 9 @ 12:38am)

Fleur is never going to deal with a pizza delivery boy again. The little pipsqueak was so vulnerable to her allure he dropped her pizza when she put the money in his hand, buckled at the waist as he went off in his uniform trousers. At least the portkey she used coming back seems to give extra heat to the pies, keeping them warm after she had to walk to the fallow, dark field behind the village.

The tree line at the edge of the farm is thick enough to hide the stadium and the campgrounds even if there was no obscuring magic. The muggle gent who runs the farm keeps a stone-sided, wood-roofed little hut and an modern, steel-sided barn. His wife listened to Fleur for hours as she moaned about how much she wanted to sprint into Hermione's tent, fall on her knees and profess her love. The gray haired, twinkly-eyed woman smiled over her painfully cute teacup with honeysuckle painted on the rim while her scrawny tomcat amused himself batting at the feathers Fleur's moods brought to the surface.

That cozy little burrow of crocheted blankets and worn armchairs is a crater now. The aged cart horse is dead in the doorway of the caved-in garage, its throat opened over a silver bowl. The family's bodies can't be seen and a trail of clothing suggests kidnapping, not execution.

Death hangs in the air like the smell of bad meat. Dark magic tickles along her skin like the tendrils of some foul beast. Fleur sets the pizzas on top of an upturned water trough and puts a stasis enchantment on them.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a short chain with four charms on it before touching them one by one.

With a quick series of 'pops', her kit appears, summoned from her home via one-way portkey. She unrolls the leather bundle with her rifle and saber, slings the strap over her shoulder and traces the cushioning runes carved into the stock. The sights are brilliant green-blue even in the middle of the night. She rubs between the shiny teeth of the relocated sights on the right side of the barrel, making sure there's no mud or dust. She goes through the satchel bag with her pistols, potions, dragondung gunpowder, a handful of already-cooked bullets, empty cartridges and a pair of kukri knives with a backwards swoop and strips of leather to lash them to her hands.

Her mate is in a lightly-protected camp a quarter mile ahead and dark wizards have come through here in force and at the minimum, tormented innocent muggles.

Blood is owed.

\-----

Master Toshiro said no one is a warrior until their second battle. By the end of their first, they become either dead or an empty, dazed creature aware only that it survived.

That's no doubt true of Fleur the woman, but her veela seems eager to prove herself in a bloody hunt to protect and impress her mate. Eager to lend more than just decorative feathers and allure. Her fingernails are longer and harder and it seems like every smell in the entire forest fills her nose. It might as well be mid-day, with her eyes now being closer to those of a bird of prey rather than a human.

With her veela's grace, she steps around dry twigs and pitfalls without knowing of them. She follows the scent of cheap lager and nervous sweat as she hunts.

\-----

The first masked man is laughably easy to kill. A group of children has tied him up with stunners and illusion charms, backing him up against the tree on the other side of Fleur. One of the little girls is clutching her abdomen and the knife in his hand drips greasy gray and clumping red into the dead leaves.

A little boy catches her eye and she winks at him, making a circling motion. He and his friend launch two blasting charms at the base of the tree, chasing the man around it.

As he slides around the trunk to get away from a pack of ten-year-olds, she brings her fist up into his jaw. His jaw snaps shut with a sharp click and his head snaps back. She chases the first blow with another from her wand hand and the kukri there, facing outwards from her her wrist. Blood fountains out from the thug's jugular. His wand falls from his hands as he tries to close his wound with his palm.

Fleur beckons to the little boy and he scurries over. He's muggle born, judging by his clothes. She pulls a vial of green potion, two vials of orange and one tiny dropper of red from her kit.

"Give your friend, zis, zis and zis. In zat order, do you understand?"

He nods.

"Make sure she drinks all of zem. I want you all to 'old 'ands and press zis times. It works just like ze portkey zat brought you 'ere."

She takes a bobblehead from her bag and puts it in his hands.

**\----**

The second is more difficult. He saw her coming this time, launching a killing curse at a distance. The curse had to fly far enough that she could roll behind a dead log for cover.

Fleur shimmies down into the leaves, nestling her rifle's muzzle into a knothole in the wood. She flicks the safety off and thumbs one of the glass-tipped shells into the chamber before turning the shutter on the sights. The yew of the stock is warm and solid against her shoulder and the copper jacketing around the steel barrel hums, the faerie runes on its length twisting and tangling playfully against each other.

" _Reducto_ ," she whispers, tapping her wand to the shell before turning the bolt.

He moves towards her, wand out and cautious. No doubt unsure if he killed her or she's lying in wait.

She doesn't have a good angle pressed so close to the dirt but she can shoot at his legs, at least.

Her first shot whizzes between his legs. Behind him, a tree explodes as the bullet shatters, discharging the blasting curse she stored in its watery confines.

"Fuck," she hisses, sliding another shell into place and charming it.

The shot catches him in the leg this time, blowing it off from shin to thigh and sending him to the ground in a shrieking tangle of limbs and pulped muscle.

She loads again before she leaves her hiding place, keeping him in the sights as she approaches.

"Help...me," he grunts.

His skin is already gray and the puddle below him is wider than he is.

Fleur moves her wand hand off the stock.

_"Episkey."_

The wound knits shut.

_"Sangius creare."_

Ribbons of red mist appear in the air before coalescing into droplets of blood which wind around his chest before burrowing into his skin through some small cuts he got in the fall.

Satisfied he's regained the blood and his leg isn't going to fall off, Fleur brings the butt of her rifle down on his face.

She flicks the safety back on, puts a hand around his throat and apparates back to the campground.

The auror in front of her shouts in alarm and spins around, her hair cycling through a panicked rainbow of colors as she does. She launches three curses in fast succession--blast, stun, disarm--nearly shattering Fleur's outer shield charm on the first try.

"Merlin!" she gasped. "Don't sneak up on me, yeah?"

"Prisoner for you," Fleur explains, tipping the man into the dirt. "I 'ad to kill ze other one. 'e was threatening ze children."

"Where?" the auror demands.

"Woods, near ze farmhouse. I gave ze little ones a portkey. You'll need to send someone to ze French Embassy in London. Room Q-11."

"What happened to his leg?"

Fleur shrugs.

"At Beauxbatons, we teach combat and we teach magical and mundane weapons. 'e was not expecting the latter, clearly. With ze injury, I did not need to kill him."

The woman pinches her nose.

"Look, we've got a bunch of masked cunts grabbing muggleborns and raising absolute hell. They're playing juggle the muggle with the farmer's family and I'm not sure we can take them and catch the victims before they hit the ground."

She kneels down near the body, rolling up his left sleeve.

"FUCK!" the auror shouts.

"You recognize this?"

She points to a tattoo above his wrist.

"Ze mark of Voldemort. We 'ear ze story in school and study ze battles."

"Yeah. Means these cunts won't have any problem killing if it suits them. They're used to fighting aurors and used to hunting in groups."

"Look, I don't like it, and officially, you were never here. If you get caught by muggles with a long gun and pistols, it's your problem…"

"I 'ear a but in zis."

"But! If you were to save a few more kids, maybe knock a few of these guys out, I'll be _really glad_ you were never here."

She throws out her hand.

"Nymphadora Tonks, Auror Third Class."

Fleur takes it.

"Fleur Delacour, Student General of Beauxbatons."

"Nice to meet you. Go."

\-----

She catches the third, fourth and fifth man as they pursue a boy and two girls through the woods. The children race towards Fleur and their pursuers are so focused on not breaking their necks as they lumber through a forest after sprinting children that they aren't looking past their targets.

The girl – a tiny, fire-haired little thing – drops into a crouch and raises her wand. She takes aim at a oak with piles of dead leaves at the base and branches thick with not-yet-dropped leaves.

" _Reducto_!" she shouts.

" _Wingardium leviosa!_ " shouts one of the boys she's with.

Foliage swirls up like a tornado and bears down on the Death Eaters. Fleur slings the rifle behind her back and raises her wand, tracing a shield charm with the fingers of her off hand.

" _STUPEFY_!" Fleur bellows.

Her stunner strikes the point man in the back and he goes sailing, carried by the residual energy into the man behind him. The third jumps clear of the chain reaction but this brings him into the girl's sight again.

A branch falls from the canopy onto his head, sending him sprawling to the dirt. The still-smoldering wood is severed neat as a scalpel cut at the base.

"Thanks!" the girl calls out, waving to Fleur's hiding spot.

She and her friends stomp over through crunching piles of leaves. The redhead boy seems to be her brother, perhaps thirteen. His reaction to her allure is as sudden and total as the pizza boy, if a little better managed.

"I'm Ginny Weasley, this is Ron."

"Blurgh."

"And that's Harry."

"Err..."

Ginny makes an angry huff and kicks some leaves up in their faces.

"Come on, Harry. You too Ron, once you get your eyes back in."

The young man before her is scrawny and shivering but his aura is bright, churning with a density and speed plenty of wizards never reach as adults. Fleur glances to the boy's eyes – green as can be – and at his messy brown hair, which hides a lightning bolt scar.

"'ees a pleasure to meet you, 'arry Potter."

* * *

**Hermione**

(Quidditch World Cup | August 9 @ 01:12am)

  
  


"AVADA KED-"

A gunshot splits the air and Hermione's head is bathed in hot, sticky blood. Her would-be murderer spasms and twitches, his fingers clenching reflexively on her scalp.

Something huge and _orange_ plows into the man on her right, carrying him down into the grass. Pav's paw smashes down on his head, shoving his nose into the mud. Her claws are long as butcher's hooks and the points wrap around his greasy hair to prick into his forehead. Her paw is nearly as wide as a dustbin lid.

"STUPEFY!"

The third man flies back into the tent, landing with a crunch. From the sound of it, he hit the pole in the middle. Ginny falls to her hand and knees in the mud beside her, wheezing for air. Her wand's tip makes a sizzling noise as overheated wood sinks into watery glop.

"Hermione!" she croaks. "You all right?"

"Yeah," she sighs. "He didn't finish the words. Just help me get this lout off me."

Before Ginny can do anything, the corpse is snatched by the ankles and flung into a ruined tent ten feet away. The lower part of his leg must have come off because it drops into the mud in the middle of the walking path.

Hermione hadn't realized just how _powerful_ Pav was as a tiger until just now. Her muzzle is covered whiskers-to-neck in blood and she rolls Hermione over onto her back with one flick of her paw.

Massive, fluffy and whimpering, Parvati nuzzles into Hermione's lap.

By the time the aurors find them, Hermione is cradling a shivering, sobbing, and oh-so-human Parvati under a blanket Ginny rescued from within the tent.

"She might be in shock," Hermione warns them. "I don't think she'd ever been in a fight before. Her beast seemed to know what to do and I don't think she was fully in control."

"Good that she could kill when she needed to," one of the aurors grunts. "Not fun, but more fun than being killed."

The auror that spoke is an wild-looking man with a metal peg-leg, an enchanted glass eye, and a squinty, suspicious _normal_ eye on the other side. He's almost as scary as the Death Eaters. Behind him, two aurors--including the one from before, Tonk--are carrying a stretcher with a few vials of potion dangling in the canvas.

Hermione nods her head at the dead body.

"Wasn't her. She knocked that guy over there out. The one who was going to kill me? Someone shot him. With a muggle gun."

"Hmph. Found others like that. Five. Whoever they are, they've killed more than we've managed to capture or stun. Efficient. Took 'em by surprise rather than give the scum a fair right. Overheard a couple kids talking about an angel in the woods. "

"Muggle police will be going up the walls about the gunshots," he grumbles.

Tonks' shoulders slump in and she pretends that the charred tent to the right of the path is the most interesting thing in the world.

"Kids!" she jokes. "So creative nowadays."


	10. Sunrise in the Treetops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where laws on underage wizarding vary, and that's one way to ensure Hermione's safety...

_"In our neighbors to the north, we see wizards cowering in fear. Fear of their children's skills! Fear that someone's great grandmother once bought milk from a muggle! Fear of the muggle mastery of steam! Englishmen are, after all, accustomed to steam only in such qualities to ruin some leaves while ruining a glass of water! So they cast aside nothing, hoping that the gifts in their twenty-eight families can be preserved while time passes them by. Were it not for the smell, they would cling to the contents of their chamberpots as a matter of principle and tradition!"_

_"Across the seas in newborn nation that our treasure helped birth, we see wizards who have cast everything aside. In one year, they have come to the aid of muggles in a time of war and abolished slavery of the muggle negro, the elf, the pixie and the goblin. They marry muggles, and witch marries witch and wizard marries wizard. Love counts more when one cares less for tradition. In the Americans, we see liberty raised above all. Liberty is pleasure, of course. Liberty in such extremes...I fear that not even the Americans know what that will bring."_

_"Today, we gather to decide what we are. King Louis is gone. Head shorter than when he took the throne. The guillotines have spoken. The mobs are glutted with the blood of wastrel heirs. Many of our coffers are lighter for it. Were such an assembly as ours known to Robespierre? If they saw our finery, our private libraries, our wine cellars, we would be no less hated. Magic can hide us, of course. But there is no coming back from that. We live in secrecy forever, exiled by fear. We take a risk today. Those are the choices, my fellows. Do we behave as the English do, cowering behind tradition? Or do we step forward, side by side with the free men and women of the Republic of France?"_

_"Fear or liberty? I choose liberty!"_

**\--From a speech given by Adeline Rosier on January 11, 1800 to the Witch's Parlor at Orleans. A pure-blood witch and French noblewoman, she later became the first democratically elected head of the French Ministry of Magic.**

* * *

**Hermione**

(Quidditch World Cup | August 9 @ 2:54am)

Hermione thought it had really gone to shit when dark wizards through camp and nearly killed her. No. That was a Sunday picnic compared to what happened after one of them shot the Dark Mark into the sky with--apparently--Harry's wand that got nicked from their tent.

Aurors Moody, Shacklebolt and Tonks are flanking Barty Crouch. Crouch is a man with the sort of reputation that means a muggle-born learns his name in the Daily Prophet the first time she reads it. He was demoted from head of the aurors and chief prosecutor so he wouldn't challenge his boss in an election.

At his welcoming speech before the first match, he was a diplomat and a showman.

Now he's acting like the man who sat in judgment over every single Death Eater formally charged.

He's got Harry by the collar of his jacket.

Arthur Weasley steps up like he wants to yank Crouch back. The normally goofy man looks madder than she's ever seen him. Auror Tonks tenses but she looks disappointed more than she does angry, so she too thinks Crouch is losing it.

"Where'd you learn the mark, boy?"

"He's a kid, Barty! Can't you see the lad's terrified? Accusing Harry doesn't get us a useful explanation. Be reasonable. Take this seriously. Is it more likely that a boy who lost both his parents to You-Know-Who cast the mark, or that someone snagged Harry's wand to throw us off?"

"The other Death Eaters bolted when they saw the mark," Hermione points out. "Maybe the guy who cast it was a true believer and the pack of them was just having a laugh. Then he called their bluff?"

That was a mistake. Crouch now turns his attention to her.

"Turn out your pockets."

She does, pulling out her expandable handbag--thank goodness it isn't the one she made herself--and wiggling the tag that says 'Licensed Product of Charmed Cargo Bags, Bins, and Boxes'. From it she removes her muggle bookbag, setting each book out on the table, then her wands. Rather than give him any excuse to be more of a prat, she even unrolls her toiletry bag.

"What are those?" Crouch asks.

"Tampons. Muggle girls use them instead of vampire's cotton when…"

Crouch swallows and averts his eyes.

"Ah. Yes. Err, thank you for your candor."

She folds her arms.

"Seemed the thing to do. Break the tension so we could all use our brains."

"Where did you get this wand, young lady?"

He points to the borrowed wand.

"That's an untraced wand," Auror Tonks says, pointing her own at it. Under the revealing charm, Hermione's wand has a little red spiral running through the core and the borrowed wand does not. "Did you buy it from someone on the black market?"

Crouch was going over her books while Tonks examines the wand.

"Hmm. Lots of upper-level transfiguration and experimental books. Probably borrowed it from an adult friend to mess around over the summer. Wouldn't be the first overeager architect to do it. Interesting that she didn't blow herself up attempting all this. At any rate, it'll have to be confiscated."

A woman appears beside Hermione in a poof of fruity smelling blue smoke.

"Zat would be unwise, sir. Ze wand is mine because 'ers was damaged on 'oliday and I offered. I felt zat in zese dangerous times, such a promising young witch should 'ave somezing to defend 'erself. Ministry-locked wands cannot produce full-force combat spells. Zis is common knowledge."

She nods at the writhing, ghastly mark filling the sky over the valley.

"Zese are _dangerous times,_ no?"

"Hmm."

Barty nods at Tonks and Moody. They both nod, as if they'd had some conversation in their heads.

"If you are who I _think you are,_ miss, then I'm dropping a cartload's worth of nasty letters from Paris on my foot if I make a fuss. Miss Granger may keep the wand until the start of the school year, provided she immediately leaves Britain and returns here, under escort, straight to the Hogwarts Express."

"Agreed. Zere is a lovely beach 'ouse on ze French side of ze channel. Is zat all right, 'ermione?"

Hermione looks to the dark mark, then to Parvati's suspiciously gleeful expression, and then cranes her head to look over her shoulder at the jaw-droppingly lovely woman smiling back at her.

"Sure."

* * *

**Fleur**

(Calais, France | August 14)

_note: dialogue is in French_

The followers of Lord Voldemort _finally_ did something useful for the world. By getting Hermione caught with the wand, they got her sent over to Fleur for 'supervision' and the thick catalog of family properties means that Fleur could simply write a cousin and trade use of the beach house for the cabin. For the last week, she's had her intended in her bed. Metaphorically at least. Her veela's grace means that she hasn't actually sprained anything sleeping on the couch.

Her stubborn genius of a mate is stumbling down the old cottage's well-worn steps. Her mate is stirring to life just after dawn in _her home_ while Fleur _makes them breakfast_ like any new wife might.

The only thing missing is that they're not actually a couple.

Hermione went for the city library like an arrow to a target, looking for some rare tract written in English but more popular in France. She seemed to love swimming, too. Her skin a shade or two darker than its prior cinnamon shade from all the sun glinting off the waves and Fleur's made some deeply humiliating noises when Hermione emerged from the water, the muscles of her arms jumping as she shook her hair out. The seawater falling away was like a thousand diamonds raining from polished amber. Fleur was the poor butterfly inside, lured by the sweetness only to be wrapped in stone, never to escape.

"Sleep well?"

"Yes, thanks. Why did you invite me here if there was only one bed?"

Fleur shrugs.

"Perhaps I simply like the couch."

"There's precious little to like about the couch. Sitting on it is one thing."

"Feminine mystique?"

"Try again, Fleur. I've seen you babble at your dogs."

As if summoned via portkey, Petal jumps up from the blanket she dragged over to the door and pads over to Hermione who puts her hand on her head and lazily scratches.

"Hey, girl."

"The sun actually came out for a change. I was thinking of getting some."

"Wouldn't you cook, Fleur? You're rather pale."

"Perhaps my body is a bit more _flexible_ than you realize. You're welcome to join me. After all, what beach is complete without a sun goddess napping on it?"

* * *

**Hermione**

(Calais, France | August 14)

Fleur is pleasant company. Clearly pureblooded and nearly clueless. Madly interested in the muggle world. When Hermione mentioned the Chunnel a few miles away at Calais, Fleur found the idea of muggle engineering on that scale so interesting she was ready to write the Ministry and ask if Tonks could meet them at the English side. Smarter than her blonde, blue eyed appearance, affected shyness and fondness for deep necklines might lead a stranger to think on first glance. Powerful witch who likes to go wandless and nonverbal for basic charms and even some enchantments and whose flighty control is more than made up for by sheer power. Not shy about showing it. She's sixteen but French laws are different and based on degrees and licenses, not simple age. Fleur started school early and thus graduated Beauxbatons with top marks in June and is on some kind of college-level course of study taking a year by correspondence.

She's happily apparated them around, taught Hermione the kind of spells that adults sometimes rub in Hermione's face--memory modifiers, object modification, defensive warding, mind-reading, transparency charms--and even suggested Hermione spend a day or two at the academy for some sparring.

Really an excellent vacation. A promising friendship, Hermione hopes.

The problem is she's _so fucking gorgeous_ and when it comes to this beach, utterly shameless.

This little crescent of pale sand is hemmed in by rocks on one side and a cove on on the other and they don't need a swimsuit, legally or practically. All women here, as Fleur astutely observed.

For some stupid reason, Hermione assumed that Fleur would sunbathe face down. She did, for about half an hour. Now she's sunny-side up, one leg arched up which only draws attention to her dancer's body and the paleness of her skin. A hardback copy of some gothic yarn called _Carmilla_ is cradled between her fingers. She wets her fingertip to turn each page, giving a little peek of cotton-candy pink tongue each time. She's also got lines of crisp feathers the color of toffee running from the back of her hand up to her collarbone, joining there and then plunging down her breastbone until they fade off above her navel. That's not something humans do, or not something she's ever heard of. If Fleur's beast was an eagle or a brown owl like the feathers imply, the shift would be total and wouldn't leave human features. If she was a metamorphamagus she _could_ do all that but given that it takes effort, she can't see why Fleur would make just one change. One slightly alarming change.

No, Fleur is some sort of magical creature that just looks like a human, or a hybrid, or a disguised faerie, or something. Not topics much covered at Hogwarts or in English culture generally, from what she's gleaned. It would be rude to crack open a book on non-human magical people with Fleur here but the curiosity might just kill her if she doesn't.

A steel-blue falcon swoops out of the sky and drops a letter on Hermione's face without landing. It zooms off and not long after the shriek of a surprised rabbit comes over the bluff behind them.

"Ow."

The back of the envelope has the Patil family's stamp on it.

* * *

Hermy,

Having fun being a beach bum with the reincarnation of Marilyn Monroe?

Not much happening here. Raining in London, of course, so I hope your mum and dad's house is up on a hill. Unless dentists float? Do dentists float, like merpeople do?

Harry's staying at the Burrow for his safety and because if he went back Molly would hear something she didn't like and go turn the Dursleys into toads. Pads got her beast last week. Mountain lion, ironically enough. Big one, way bigger than the wild ones. Maybe it did all the growing before she could shift. She decided to chase Ron around the yard until he shifted too. You have not lived until you've seen a terrified big-horned sheep with red wool get knocked around the garden by a mountain lion with a shredded quidditch shirt on. Harry broke it all up by shifting. Not sure if he told you but not me--or just told nobody--but he's a snake. King cobra, except big around as me and about the length of a bus. Bloke can't seem to stay away from snake references despite being a Gryffindor.

Sorry I didn't write before. Mum's having one of her patented freakouts. Happens whenever something dangerous happens to me and Pads. We get locked in our rooms and we can hear her pacing away on the top floor. She'll cry for a whole day and dad will comfort her every hour or two. In the morning she'll come down, tell us she's glad we're safe and complain about things we did that she feels put us in more danger.

I think she does it so that she doesn't say what she's thinking, which is that we're her babies and she never wants to let us go.

Last week, Blaise Zabini was at a grand opening party before term—his dad sells some glassware to my dad for the apothecary and I overheard him complaining to Pansy about 'those feathered whores' and 'stupid popularity contests' that sounded like he's complaining about something happening at Hogwarts this year.

Since you asked in your last letter, I did some research. Apparently there's a huge family of French witches with the name Delacour. Filthy rich, loads of businesses, long history in the magic army over there. Makes the Malfoys here look like little boys in men's suits running a sweets stand. The banks, magical hospitals, the aurors, ministry foreign services and top offices are all stacked with Delacours. No one's ever met a male Delacour, just some husbands who don't use the name. Rumor is the Delacour are veela. I nicked a book from dad's study and copied some pages down about the veela. It's not much. Practically nothing. Bunch of guessing and repeating tall tales that they admit they're not sure about. Maybe you can only find out about veela by getting one to trust you.

Stay safe, gorgeous.

Pav

PS-You're wrong. That woman was flirting with you. I've worn out a hairbrush just thinking about her eyes when Crouch was shouting at you. You are alone with her for three weeks, woman! If I don't get some vacation photos and you can't tell me what it's like to snog her or something, **you're a nitwit**.

* * *

Three crisp pops startle Hermione. On the ridge are two women and next to them a tall, well groomed house elf in some sort of striped turtleneck sweater. The women are either Fleur's mother and her younger sister, or Mount Olympus is doing a shit job of keeping track of goddesses these days.

Fleur groans, setting her book down. She waves her hand, drawing a column of sand into the air before transfiguring it into a towel.

"Mother, to what do I owe this unannounced and undesired visit?"

"Well, dear, I suspected you would die of old age before your mate knew you were interested so I tho-"

"SHE'S CUTE!" the girl shrieks. "LOOK AT HER HAIR!"

She's tiny but from her figure, she must be around twelve or thirteen and dressed in a more basic version of what Fleur wore to the World Cup. Pale blue skirt and blouse, indigo coat that hangs loosely and is hemmed to just above the silver-studded belt around her hips. Maybe that's the uniform for the lower grades at Beauxbatons or maybe as a graduate Fleur was given the epaulets, rifle, pistols and saber.

Fleur flops back into the sand with a groan. She waves her hand dismissively at the hillside.

"'Ermione, zis my sister Gabrielle and my maman, Apolline Delacour. One of our 'ouse elves, Flimsy. As you've already deduced, Flimsy is ze brains of ze operation."

Gabrielle moves with surprising speed for someone so _small._ She's sprinted down to Hermione and grabbed her hand before Hermione could get her brain unstuck from being called someone's mate and more importantly a _clothed_ and seemingly content house-elf holding a bottle of sherry. She could get used to house elves being invited to come along.

"Come on!" Gabrielle urges, yanking her towards the house. Fleur's accent must be her own, perhaps a practiced one to give her voice that syrupy smoothness as she meekly stumbles over consonants. Gabby's is entirely different and not just from the shrillness. Though perhaps its because the child seems to have broken into a cafe's storeroom and drank a few hundred espressos.

"We're going to be sisters in law and there's just so much you need to know about veela!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabrielle is doing her best!!!  
> \-----  
> I thought about stringing Hermione along then I decided that smitten/useless Fleur was more adorable so I had Gabby come by and drop an awkward truth bomb.


	11. Schoolmates, Sauces, Waterproofing, and Spell Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Hermione maybe is a little jealous of Harry's notoriety and finds a way to get back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to imagine the in-betweens in a story myself, things like the offhanded mention in Harry Potter of how 'everyone knows' there's terrifying monster X-Y-Z in the forbidden forest, or how 'localized rain of spiders' is in the weather report in the Carmilla web series, or how in Wynonna Earp, the sheriff starts rattling off things like 'mermaid poltergeist' when explaining possible duties to his deputy.
> 
> Point is, sometimes using our imaginations to stretch the narrative thread between one thing and another is fun. So I'm inflicting my preferences on you. More than usual, that is.
> 
> What happens in the beachside cottage stays in the beachside cottage until such time as Hermione needs to kill a male classmate with jealousy.
> 
>  **Vocabulary for spells:**  
>  "impervius" = drying or waterproofing spell  
> "maxima" = power-enhancing element  
> "enduri" = duration-enhancing element
> 
> "impendio" = charge  
> "spectralis" = ghost  
> "et" = and  
> "portcullis" = door or gate  
> "logicus" = logic, thought or concept

_Narcissa Malfoy: "Please state your full name, maiden name, and any noble lines you may hold for the record."_  
  
_Gwenhwyfar: "Gwenhwyfar Emily Amelia Josephine Carmen Naomi Akasha Rosier-Black-Shafiq. One moment, I need a glass of water after that!"_

_Narcissa Malfoy: "Take your time. As is my duty as a pureblood lady, I return the gesture. As head of this committee, I, Lady Narcissa Black-Malfoy, do welcome you."_

_Gwenhwyfar: "Always a pleasure, Cissy. With a name like that, I'm surprised my dear mother didn't just name me 'every famous witch she can think of, starting with King Arthur's dirty secret' or something."_

_Narcissa Malfoy: "As I'm sure you're aware, this committee has met to request your expertise in the treatment of witches, particularly your practice in the muggle city known as Las Vegas."_

_Gwenhwyfar: "Which is to say that you lovely cats aren't having as many kittens as your husbands would like, and Maeve, Morgana and that lot never hacked essence replication on maternal lines and their work was sloppy on paternal lines. Leaving you stuck with my inherited magical core as the only witch's core surviving unchanged from that age, and from one of the Camelot witches to boot. Not to mention I'm an expert on how our bodies and our magic work together."_

_Gwenhwyfar: "Additionally, the witness would like to add that if Lady Narcissa Black-Malfoy is not getting treated as the goddess she is and getting dined on before breakfast, lunch, and dinner it makes a case for a witches' uprising the likes of which Britain has never seen."_

_Narcissa Malfoy: "I'm afraid that your indiscretions at Hogwarts are not the issue here today."_

_Gwenhwyfar: "Pity. As I recall, our mutual indiscretions got loud enough we drove Peeves the ghost round the bend."_

_Amelia Bones: "If you'd permit it, Lady Black-Malfoy, I believe my experience as a prosecutor might be of service. Permission to treat the witness as hostile?"_

_Gwenhwyfar: "Love, with that jawline, you can treat me however you like."_

_Amelia Bones: "You published a rather provocative paper in Bodies of Witches journal last year, is that correct?"_

_Gwenhwyfar: "Yes, that's correct."_

_Amelia Bones: "Please summarize the findings of that paper. Professionally."_

_Gwenhwyfar: "I received training in mediwitchery at Beauxbatons after Hogwarts and followed up with muggle classes on gynecology, endocrinology and psychology. To put it bluntly, I studied what muggles knew about enjoying what's between our legs, how our moods align our fertility and health with our appetites for food or physical activity, and what makes us happy."_

_Amelia Bones: "A particular line in the study stands out to me. 'If the old blood survives, it will be because of the malcontents, not in spite of them. The witch who got caught with her handmaiden's hand up her petticoats and tore up her contract on the way to the potioner. The pureblood who accepted banishment in favor of marrying someone she liked. Old blood will flow in those children's veins, bastard or not.'"_

_Gwenhwyfar: "I was inspired by research done by the muggles known as Masters and Johnson, along with another muggle known as Kinsey, along with various writings by Virginia Woolf, Rita Sackwood-West, Tallulah Bankhead, Marlene Dietrich and so on. I developed a theory that one possible cause of the declining birthrates was that a witch who doesn't like the sex she's getting is not going to conceive as easily. Muggle scientists have been able to determine a sort of link between quality of sex and likelihood of conception."_

_Gwenhwyfar: "In my anonymized floo network interviews, it became clear that the only time a noble witch comes into contact with an orgasm is reading about it. Studies show that muggle ladies who sleep with ladies have us beat by a thousand miles on sexual satisfaction. I'm not at all ashamed to admit that I take home a witch over a wizard eight times out of ten."  
_

_Amelia Bones: "So the carnal aspects of an encounter also influence the productivity of it?"_

_Gwenhwyfar: "That's correct. With the exception of the former Miss Molly Prewett, I don't think any of you here have had any unexpected children or even any more than the bare minimum needed to fulfill your bloodline preservation contracts. Would that be correct? Feel free to speak candidly, we're all witches here."_

_Amelia Bones: "Any counterarguments? Very well."_

_Gwenhwyfar: "Muggles call it cryptic sexual selection. The intensity and pleasure of the sex not only increases the woman's desire for more sex--obviously improving her chances--but it increases her body's receptivity and the happiness with her partner improves her mood, which can particularly affect cases where fertility of one partner or the other is borderline. There's some muggle women--and my French studies show some witches--who can't conceive with their husbands but conceived in a few months with one of the male surrogates selected by their families."_

_Gwenhwyfar: "Additionally, multiple studies suggest that witch-loving-witch couples, which muggles might call lesbians or bisexuals, enjoy a higher rate of orgasms than muggle women with men. Pairing this with the fact that as witches, we have avenues like fertility potions and druidic seeding spells, I was able to help forty-one out of forty-nine couples I worked with. In most cases, she'd taken a younger witch or an old schoolmate as a lover and with her and a potion containing her husband's seed, she'd be knocked up just like that. In several cases, it worked to have her lover give her a run for it and then bring in the husband for a shorter session while she was still sizzling."_

_Gwenhwyfar: "There's nineteen of twenty eight families left and six more are headed for the dustbin either by way of old men dying or young women striking out for a muggle or muggleborn with a smaller ego and a larger...wand. Wizards aren't siring as many children as they used to but you'll find that the 'disgraced' witches in your houses who married muggles, muggle-born and so on have all the kids they want. Fully eighteen centuries we've been worried about names more than our own happiness and we've not only limited ourselves to these lines in general, but between old friends. No one named Moody, Weasley, Prewett or Potter has married a Lestrange, Malfoy or Rosier since the battle of Hastings."_

_Gwenhwyfar: "We want to be mothers. Usually. We want to carry on our house lines. We've got a potion shop full of options muggle women could not believe and ladies-only spells they would kill for. But we act in ways most muggle women gave up a century ago. Knocking about our manors, lonely and hollowed, until whatever man our fathers saw fit to betroth us to the day we were born has us lie back and think of the galleons. Can't imagine why getting stuck with all the delicacy of a dead fish on a hook would make a woman uninterested in more of the same. We're witches, so we want to continue the lines. We're also women, so we know better than to raise children in loveless homes."_

_Amelia Bones: "Narcissa, are you all right?"_

_Gwenhwyfar: "Cissy?"_

_Narcissa Malfoy: "The chairwoman would like to be excused."_

_Gwenhwyfar: "The witness would like to treat the chairwoman to lunch."_

**\--From a testimony given to the Witches' Affairs Committee for the Noble Houses, March 18, 1983. The subcommittee on Marriage, Mothering and Magic met to discuss the increasing rate of squibs, unhealthy children and mentally unsound children, particularly daughters among the noble lines. The originally scheduled 1978-1980 hearings were put off by Voldemort's rise and the number of purebloods killed in the war created renewed urgency around population growth.**

* * *

**Ron**

(The Burrow | August 31 | one day before start of term)

  
He's really been missing Hermione the last three weeks. She's a great friend and having Harry over for dinner every other night but not seeing Hermione feels like it's just _wrong._ He might fancy Hermione, but he's not sure how to tell. 

Fred and George were no help, naturally. Fred didn't even bother trying. 

George leaned back, smiled lazily and proceeded to tell some stark raving mad story about himself, the two beaters on Hufflepuff's team, half a box of chocolate frogs, and Bertie Bott's Beans reconfigured with a jinx that simply can't be legal. Certainly at their age. Cracking story. No man could snog both of the Smith twins and live to tell the tale, let alone shag both are them, as the long smiling pauses implied. Those girls are good looking, sure. They're bloody _massive._ Like someone decided that giants weren't scary enough as it is so he transfigured a couple to have violet eyes, pretty faces, and great piles of honey-blonde hair.

Bill hasn't made more than gulping noises since he helped Auror Tonks hand Hermione off. Their poor mum even tried a powerful skrewt-repelling hex on his foot in the hopes that he'd at least yelp. Nothing. 

Far as any one knows, all the help Ron could get out of Charlie is figuring out whether he likes is zoology and taking classes about dragons. 

Percy's probably buggering that Portuguese chap in the typing pool in the next office over from Fudge's right this minute. Percy's actually Ron's favorite, he's decided. He still writes back and says Ron can ask anything. Percy might be able to help him with _boys_ but Ron's not that sort of wizard. Witches only, thanks. He'd ask Ginny now that they get along but that would only yield a theoretical discussion about getting a snog from Harry Potter. His poor sister is so fixated his mum's grumbling that getting her to do chores is like stuffing a veela into a tub of saltpeter. Whatever that actually means. Something his mum says when Ginny gets particularly dreamy-eyed.

The only thing distracting him from figuring out about Hermione is the girl that took her.

Ever since that French girl stepped in for Hermione at the cup, Ron can't stop thinking about her. Had to beg Percy--by owl, no less--to send him a copy of a muffling charm. Wanking is something that happens. He knew that after ten minutes of some stupid joke show on muggle TV when his dad took them to a 'sports bar' for research. It's private, though. Probably because it's so bloody time-consuming. At least he hasn't got schoolwork yet, and it's not likely he'll be seeing the French girl ever again. Maybe in ten years it'll fade a bit. After a bit of a nasty scrape, he wandered into town and asked the bloke at the muggle chemist about lotions. Wasn't like his mum wouldn't figure out why he needed to be shown a skin-sooth charm when he's not actually been getting the sun she wants him to.

At least Hermione has it worse. She can't stand hanging out with the other girls in Gryffindor. Complains every time she sees him or Harry about Lavender being a gossip, or Lily Moon being 'in denial about herself' or something _._ Never complains much about Pavrati but maybe that's because she doesn't borrow clothes from the other girls. He reckons if he ever sees Hermione again in one of Parv's shirts from a witches-rock concert in London, he'll have a clear answer about whether he fancies her.

There's just no way in the world Hermione's enjoying being cooped up without her textbooks with some pretty witch she doesn't know.

\-----

Harry gives him a crushing hug the instant he sees him. Ginny makes a sort of growly sound and stomps on Ron's foot.

"Oi! Easy on the breakable parts!"

Ginny opens her arms too and after thinking about it for a minute, Harry leans over and hugs her gently. More like patting her back while leaning over from hallway across the station, really.

"Hi, Ginny. Nice to see you."

"Harry," she gasps. 

Then his sister makes a sound like air leaving a balloon and stuffs her hands in her back pockets. Girls.

"Have you seen Hermione, Ron?"

"No. You?"

"Not a bit. She hasn't written me either, not since the first week."

"Let's get a good seat," Ginny suggests. "I want to know all about visiting Hogsmeade so I can do it right."

"Yeah," Ron scoffs. "All grown up."

Harry bumps his sneaker against Ron's shin.

"Thanks, Harry."

Hermione doesn't show up in their compartment the entire ride. People keep walking by with textbooks, though. She's probably catching up on all that work she couldn't do while locked up with whatever-her-name-is.

\-----

Hermione _does_ show up at the front door. It's raining griffons and grims and everyone on the carriages got it worse than the kid who fell in the lake. Squid pulled him out before he was halfway dunked, apparently. 

She's carrying a big, bright-red umbrella with some kind of drying charm. 

Grinning.

Her friends are well aware she's smarter than everyone else and this time, even the Slytherins can't deny it. They're sloshing around in expensive shoes, grabbing each other before they fall and here's the muggleborn they hate, warm and dry and looking down her nose at them.

"Careful, Malfoy. Trip and break your face and you can't buy a new one."

Hagrid slams his big hand three times on the doors. The gears on the sides turn and they open up while playing the tune of the school song like a music box.

"First years first, please! Can't 'ave the wee ones freezing!" he hollers.

Harry hurries over from where he'd been talking to Dean Thomas. Ginny practically claws Millicent Bulstrode's eyes out in her hurry to follow.

"How was France?"

"Restful, actually. Thanks for asking, Harry. It was a beach house and there was a great muggle library."

"Brilliant," Harry hisses over the chattering of his own teeth.

Hermione draws her wand and points it at Harry's feet.

_"Impervius maxima enduri!"_

A powerful blast of warm air emerges from the floor at Harry's feet, blowing his coat, hair and, glasses every which way. Then a blob of some greenish slime appears in midair and splats onto his clothes and glasses, spreading out all over.

"Hermione..." Harry whines.

"Give it a minute. It turns transparent."

Harry straightens his glasses.

"What...was...that. They're dry. So are my robes."

" _Impervius_ is a standard waterproofing charm. The enhanced version, that's the _maxima_ part, actually dries what's already wet. The duration incantation-- _enduri_ \--makes it last by spreading scarab beetle potion all over, permanently coating the clothes and glasses or whatever. You can't get wet. Well, not in those clothes and not with non-magical water."

"So you can just mush spells together to get different effects?" Harry asks.

"Of course you can, Harry. Honestly! You didn't think _wingardium leviosa_ was one spell, did you?"

"I've been studying spell construction theory," she sniffs, doing a scary imitation of her insufferably know-it-all self back in first year. "But of course, you'd know that because you've been doing the readings too. Right?"

Ron leans close to Harry.

"Keep her on our side, yea?"

"Agreed."

* * *

_Per the ministers request, multiple attempts have been made to jinx, hex, or ward the headmaster's office in order to gain the ability to pre-approve opening of term speeches. None were successful. Some of the wards were obviously Dumbledore's, such as the one that summoned elephant-sized and rather ferocious Lemon Leech-brand gummy candies. Others, like the one that insulted Auror Winston's manhood in an archaic dialect of Old Norse for ten hours whilst trapping him in a time loop, are not Dumbledore's. Hopefully._

_The recommendation of my group is that a monitor-and-react approach has taken. Further attempts to access the headmaster's office, or any faculty office are likely to result in medical costs, therapy costs, and perhaps even fatalities. That would reflect badly on the ministry, especially in service to such a non-essential goal._

_ERRATA: Please find attached a bill for syrup-removal charms from Snazzy Turtle Laundry's Edinburgh location._

**\--summary note on case file 3181-BL at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's Ward Alteration and Removal (DMLE-WAR) division.**

* * *

**Harry**

(Hogwarts, September 1, Opening Day of Fourth Year)

"You couldn't have dried my robes too, Hermione?" Ron gripes.

She blushes. "My wand's been acting up. Best I don't until Flitwick and McGonagall can take a look at it. I was so glad to see you guys I didn't think about the danger."

The idea of Hermione _with a dodgy wand_ is right up there with finding a live dementor as the surprise toy in his breakfast cereal. Harry trips on his feet and nearly wipes out on the floor. Hermione grabs him with both arms and almost goes over herself but somehow keeps him halfway upright.

"Right, thanks. Thanks for the spell, too. Always glad to be a guinea pig."

She shrugs.

"Honestly, Harry...that's one of your best qualities."

He leans over to Ron.

"So she's a bit...different."

"Bold as a bull dragon," Ron agrees. "That's odd, innit?"

"Odd," Harry wonders, "Or just new? Not like she doesn't have a reason to be confident."

"She's pretty brilliant," Ron agrees. He's looking in Hermione's direction but has this sappy look on his face. His eyes aren't focusing on Hermione, even if he thinks they are.

Great. Now Harry has to deal with worrying about Sirius rushing back to help him and getting killed, Peter Pettigrew popping out of a mousehole to kill him, Death Eaters in Hogsmeade _and_ Ron fancying Hermione. Harry's almost certain that Hermione would go on a date with Pansy Parkinson before Ron or Harry, but he doesn't feel like Ron catching on should be his problem. If Ron actually tries to snog her, someone's ending up in the hospital wing. Parvati's tiger is no laughing matter.

He's going to need a spare best mate if this keeps up, so someone can help him Ron while Harry helps Hermione and she keeps them both from walking into a pit of cursed spikes or something.

He thinks about asking Ginny to meet up after the feast so they can talk but she'd think he was asking her on a date. Ginny's amazing but she's his best mate's little sister. That's just not happening. The carriage ride took longer in the mud and one of the grandfather clocks is shaking a cane at them telling them they're late, so they're all huffing and jogging up the staircase.

"At least inside," Ron wheezes. "We won't get any wett-AHH!"

A large, red, water filled balloon had drops from out of the ceiling onto Ron’s head and explodes. He staggers around, knocking into Harry--Hermione steps away from Ron and bats the next balloon aside with her umbrella--and then a third one catches Harry dead in the face.

“PEEVES!” yells Professor McGonagall. “Peeves, come down here at once!”

She had heard the commotion and come dashing out of the Great Hall, nearly wiping out on the slick floor. A two-balloon salvo from Peeves lands right at her feet and has her tripping on the top stair.

 _"Levicorpus!"_ Hermione shouts.

Rather than tumbling down the stairs and maybe breaking her neck, McGonagall sort of hovers unhappily right over the floor.

“That'll do, Miss Granger.”

Hermione flicks her wand and somehow ends the spell without moving her lips. She closes her umbrella and takes aim at Peeves as he bounces around like a pinball.

"I have a question, Peeves!"

"YEAH?"

 _"_ What does _impendio spectralis et portcullis logicus_ mean?" she calls out.

"Why, that's easy! It mea-"

A big round birdcage made of white smoke forms around Peeves, who tries to fly away before it can slam shut but he's only moving about half as fast as normal. It closes around him and the door--which seems to be made entirely of mathematical symbols--snaps shut. A sheet of glowing long division homework wraps around the knob and ties itself into a bow.

"I'm a ghostie, little girlie! Can't lock me up, can't lock me up..."

Hermione puts her wand back in her sleeve.

"Get yourself out then."

He tries, only to slam into the bars with a loud gonging sound.

"WHAT DID YOU DO?" Peeves shrieks.

"I didn't lock you up. I can't, you're a ghost. You're stuck in a conversation, is what happened. I told you I had a question and you asked what it was, so I answered you with a question. I wrapped a mystery around you and made you unable to leave unless you solve it. If you want to get out, tell me what the following story describes."

"There is a story that a man and not a man, saw and did not see a bird and not a bird, perched on a branch and not a branch and hit him and did not hit him with a rock and not a rock."

Professor McGonagall has gotten back up and Goyle of all people is handing her hat back.

Ron leans in to whisper.

"That's never going to work, 'Mione. Peeves is _aces_ with riddles. He's really going to give it to us when he gets loose."

"He does like riddles. But muggle riddles are a bit different and he can't leave until he solves it and tells me. I can't even dispel it. So if he gets loose," Hermione corrects him.

"When."

"If."

"When."

"Honestly, Ronald! Are you five years old?"

Ginny giggles next to Hermione.

"What do you think, Harry?" Ron demands. "Won't he get right out of that? It's _Peeves_ we're talking about. He's only afraid of the Bloody Baron and Dumbledore and I'm not real sure about Dumbledore."

Two minutes ago, Harry would have been a hundred percent on Ron's side. Except that locking Peeves in a conversation is smart--he loves to ask riddles of others--and he's going to fall for it every time. Harry's thinking that between her footwork, wand work and spell chaining Hermione spent all three weeks in France practicing dueling. At a spa, apparently, given her sleek, delicately braided hair and snazzy umbrella. She's even wearing makeup, sort of a faintly sparkly silver dust which looks great on her dark skin. The idea of Hermione wearing makeup honestly is a sign it's probably some lunatic using Polyjuice potion instead of actually Hermione.

Hermione's no slouch. She's knocked Harry down four times in their underground club they kept on after Lockhart started it second year. The only other people are Ginny (she's got a temper and her spells flare up when she's cross) and Neville (when he can actually aim and doesn't bung the incantation, his stunners hit like a charging elephant) and they've got two each.

She's good but not great in one-on-one. In team dueling, Hermione's a bloody menace with the way she can juggle a half a dozen spells while keeping her shield up. She stands in the back making ice for people to slip on and transfiguring people's ties into angry boxing gloves and her teammates focus on tossing curses because she's got them protected. That's how all but one of her knockouts of Harry happened.

She's never ended a charm like _levicorpus_ without talking before or done anything like turning a gate-mending charm into a prison-conjuring curse.

McGonagall smacks her soaking wet hat on the wall and glares up at Peeves.

"Fifty points to Gryffindor, young lady! A hundred if you can teach the faculty to do that."

Hermione grins in the sort of crazy-person grin she always gets when McGonagall praises her.

\-----

The students filing into the great hall for supper are a silly picture indeed. Soaked, bedraggled, squeaking shoes. Except for the families who don't like muggle footwear, and prefer the silk and leather slippers. Those _squelch_ rather rudely. Harry feels like royalty in his dry robes. With next to Hermione with her red umbrella and indigo witch hat made of suede leather, they must look like a king and queen coming in to ask the peasants what the hell went wrong.

Dumbledore is already at his podium, a fancy bronze thing about the size of a small tree. It's adorned with carved phoenixes--each headmasters picks a bird, Hermione read--whose crossed wings give a little place to put a sheet of paper. Professor Flitwick uses it for the choir's sheet music (aided by a stack of bricks) much to the dismay of students who don't make the cut. Sometimes the carvings get testy about the noise and fly after someone.

The faculty table has a gap at the spot for Defense Against the Dark Arts like it always does. Professor Grubbly-Plank's not there either but nobody really expected him back after he had to get a peg leg and a peg arm after the run-in with a wild manticore during one of the classes walks to study local wildlife. There's usually a smaller table off to the side for non teachers like Argus Filch, the caretaker, Hagrid, and the spooky lady who runs the owlrey. It's not there and Filch is holding a goblet of wine so he must have eaten already.

"Hermione," Harry whispers. 

"Yeah?"

"No table for Hagrid and Filch and it looks like Filch has already eaten."

She turns away from her chat with Ginny and Angelina Johnson to look.

"You don't suppose...no, Dumbledore would never kick Hagrid out. And there's no way that Malfoy's dad let Hagrid back on."

"Maybe he's too busy being a greasy git to notice?" Ron suggests. "Or someone has something on him and he couldn't stop it. Dad says that happens all the time at the Ministry. Getting out of things by paying. Ribald or something. He says that's never been the way Weasleys do things."

 _Bribes,_ Harry thinks. _Ron, you're thinking of the word bribes._

"A possibility, Ronald..." Hermione muses. "A possibility."

"I'm sure Hagrid would come back in a heartbea-"

"If you would gather round, first year students!" McGonagall hollers.

She smiles at the suddenly-quiet hall. Which isn't unheard of, but it's rare enough that Harry knows it's special to get one.

"It is time," she tells them, leaning in a bit like a grandmother offering treats. "For your sorting."

"What do you think, Har-"

Harry shushes him.

"I've not actually been to a sorting since ours. The flying car crash in second year. And then in third year, passing out because of the dementor. Shh."

Hermione hands him a sheet of paper, with four columns on it filled with names and a bunch of letters swarming about at the bottom. He moves his quill close to a letter and it holds still, like it wants him to grab it.

"What's this?"

"House sorting cheatsheet," she whispers. "I made one starting second year. For fun. To see if there were patterns."

"Blimey!" Ron butts in. "When'd you ask everyone their names?"

"For someone with such potential, _Ronald_ , you don't apply yourself, she huffs. The names are all posted on the bulletin board for the clubs and such. It updates with the first-year students as they walk in. I just copied it."

"Thanks, Hermione. Let's play."

“Ackerley, Stewart!” McGonagall calls out.

“RAVENCLAW!” the hat bellows after a few moments on his head.

Harry puts his head down and takes notes.

Harry's not sure Hermione's going to learn anything with this. Dennis Creevy goes to Gryffindor like his older brother Collin did. The Sorting Hat would've put him in whatever house he wanted so he'd stop telling the story of falling out of the boat and getting tossed onto shore by the giant squid. The closest to something unexpected that happened was that Graham Pritchard is in Slytherin. He's the sweet little boy who was hugging a Gryffindor fifth year in the entryway because her dog had died back home. His clothes aren't fancy, like Malfoy and his eyes move like a normal person's, unlike Crabbe and Goyle and he's not always making faces like Pansy Parkinson. Graham just seems like...like a person. 

Then again, if there was enough people like Malfoy to fill an entire one-quarter of Hogwarts, they'd just run off with their money and make their own school. Have classes on making your hair look greasy if it isn't _already_ and now to crinkle your nose to look _more_ like a weasel.

So one Slytherin being an okay person is probably not breaking news.

Dumbledore walks up to the podium, smiles, and waves his hands to say they should eat. The instant he does, food magically appears on the solid gold plates, starting at the back of the hall and going forward. Each spell makes little 'pop' noises.

"No speech?" Harry wonders aloud.

"Who cares?" Ron crows. "Food!"

Harry really can't argue with that. Not as if Dumbledore, the most powerful living wizard, can't get their attention for a student announcement if he needs to.

He starts shoveling food onto his plate before Ron can get at it. Hermione cranes her neck, looking up and down the table. She waves her hands to get Katie Bell's attention. Katie waves back and they go through some sort of secret mime language about spoons, and hands on hips, and pointing her thumb and Ron and pretending to be sick. So maybe Harry understood that one bit.

"Waf?" Ron asks, looking between Harry and Hermione and then struggling to swallow the biggest piece of sausage Harry ever saw anyone take a bite out of.

"Nothing, Ronald!" Hermione chortles. She gets out of her seat and goes over to talk to Katie Bell. Katie is the captain of the Gryffindor team. She hugs Hermione, followed by Angelina Johnson, co-captain of Harry's quidditch team who reaches across the table to do it. After Harry or Ron, Hermione probably spends more time with Angelina--she gets on better with the older girls--and they seem to actually meet up specifically to complain about people. Hermione assures Harry he wouldn't get it. Harry wonders if he wouldn't get it because Hermione, Angelina, Parvati and Kellah are the only girls in Gryffindor who aren't white. Dean Thomas is the only bloke. Slytherin has it worse. Just Blaise Zabini as far as Harry knows. Everyone else looks like Malfoy, Millicent Bulstrode or on a big stretch, Pansy Parkinson, who Harry suspects more is just tanned from looking in the mirror at her own angriness.

Harry leans back farther so he can see more. Hermione is thicker with all the quidditch girls than he ever realized. Katie goes into her backpack and pulls out some jars, as does Angelina. Hermione hands each a short stack of silver knuts.

She comes back carrying three jars. Pouring each jar (they never seem to run out) she ends up with a huge bowl of oatmeal, some fat lumps of what smells like peanut butter, a marvelous looking pile of strawberries and for some reason one jar pours out a cheesecloth. She grabs the pumpkin juice pitcher that Ron helped Harry drain and points her wand into it.

" _Impervio_!" Hermione whispers. 

Pumpkin juice flows up out of the pitcher into Hermione's glass, which she pushes over to Ron with a grin. She dumps everything into the pitcher, covers it with the cloth and taps her wand to the top.

_"Reducto cyclis."_

The pitcher jumps and shakes. Hermione sets her wand down so she can hang onto it. Red stains gradually fill the cheesecloth on top. Hermione points her wand her napkin, turning it into a big glass straw.

She plunks it in and starts slurping what looks like red oatmeal through the straw.

"Wazzat?" Ron asks, eyes wide as plates at the idea that she's learned something new about _food._

Harry supposes that maybe Ron is so excited about food because he's always gotten it. Harry has had to be strategic about food or the Dursleys would starve him.

Hermione wipes some on the back of her hand and smacks her lips.

"Protein shake. Oatmeal, strawberries, peanut butter."

"Huh," Harry replies. "Katie likes those. Basically lives on them. Couple of the blokes on the quidditch team, too."

Hermione nods.

"Ginny actually told me about these. She really wants to be a chaser so she's already training. It's hard to keep trim on what the school serves unless you really keep track."

"What's with the jars, though?" Harry asks. "Couldn't you just... I don't even know how it works. I look at the plate and it somehow figures out what food to have."

"Because this is cruelty free. That's why I had to buy the jars off Katie. We're still working on making a refilling banana peel so it just grows a new fruit. I'm not sure my project of Boxing Day caramel lamb that has actual lamb meat inside is going to work." 

"Cruelty free?" Harry asks.

There's a Hermione lecture coming up. He can feel it like a stiff wind. She looks excited, not disgusted. So it's probably fine. Might as well jump off the cliff by giving her an opening. Hermione slides a pair of bright orange buttons over. They've got a moving cartoon fist and say SPEW on them in big black letters.

"SPEW?" Ron asks through half of a slice of toast. "Whazzat?"

"Society for the Promotion of Elf Welfare."

"Like house elves?" Ron asks. "They don't want your help, 'Mione. I don't think there are any house-elves here. Not like this is Malfoy manor."

"There's one hundred and eleven working elves here. There's six gray-ears and nine dames--those too old to work--and last I checked, eighteen cubs. Which is what they're called when they're babies. All in all, one out of every four British house elves live at Hogwarts and another one-sixth live at the Ministry."

Harry looks from the badge, to Hermione, to the badge. He could tell her that this is a terrible acronym, at the very least. He's not going to tell her it's a terrible idea. Ron will do that whether it's true or not.

"So you made nasty orange buttons?" Ron asks.

"So I started a club. Angelina Johnson co-founded it."

"Why would she do something so mental?"

"Well, Ronald Bartholomew Weasley," Hermione practically snarls. Ron looks like she jinxed him when she uses his middle name. "Maybe she didn't like hearing that all of her food had been made by slaves her whole school life. Maybe her dad is American and nearly had her _pulled out_ when he found out that this school gets into the sort of thing that happened to his family back when. Maybe she wants to support common decency and human rights."

"But elves aren't human, are they?"

"Funny," Hermione scoffs. "That's just what guys who looked like _you_ , used to say about women who looked like Angelina...or who looked like _me._ "

"Oh," Ron mumbles. "That makes sense."

"Ron, have a treacle tart," Harry suggests. "And quit using your mouth until you get your brain caught up."

* * *

_"When I asked Madam Maxine why she insists on inviting Durmstrang after a Beauxbatons contestant was assaulted by theirs last time, she merely replied 'so I know where my enemies are hiding' and left it at that. Before you ask why I didn't press, I'll remind you that a wise man must learn the difference between Olympe ending a sentence, and ending the conversation entirely. It's a dainty pause, but lethal in its finality."_

**Albus Dumbledore, discussing preparations for the 211th Triwizard Tournament with Ludo Bagman of the Department of Magical Games and Sports**

* * *

**Harry**

(Hogwarts, September 2, First Day of Term, Fourth Year)

Somehow, someone has put the entire world in a blender.

"Hurry, Harry!"

"R-o-o-on, st-o-o-p sha-a-a-k-ing m-e-e!"

"Err, right. Sorry. But breakfast is nearly over."

"Breakfast is served until second period, Ron. Even you can't be so hungry you've forgotten that."

Ron holds out a piece of parchment with McGonagall's handwriting on it. It says breakfast is from only eight to half past nine with an important announcement to happen during 'brunch' whatever that is.

"Syllabus?" Harry mumbles. "I've heard these start getting handed out in the higher years. How'd _you_ find it?"

"I wanted to impress Hermione!"

_Voldemort, kill me now._

He is going to have to talk to Ginny to reel Ron in, unless Hagrid has some sort of magical critter that can bite Ron and inject a cold shower. Harry's a bloke. He gets it. Hermione's good looking. She's also nice and a bloody genius and puts up with two cretins for friends. All that means is that _they_ want to. Not that _she_ wants to but this is Ron.

He will wait four hours on a Friday night in case someone wants to play wizard's chess and not take it personal when people don't half the time. Sweet chap. Not quick to get hints though.

Harry's starting to think he feels the same thing about Ron that Fred and George probably do. He's the over-eager kid brother. He wouldn't wish the extra growing up he did in raiding the Chamber of Secrets and keeping dementors away from Sirius on anyone _._ Ron got knocked out before Harry went to the Chamber and Hermione did the real work, researching away despite being the most visible muggle-born in school. He wasn't even there when Harry and Hermione used the Time Turner to save Sirius and Buckbeak.

The way he feels about Ron makes the way he feels about a chat with Ginny even more embarrassing. Ginny doesn't feel 'sister' at all. He's pretty sure if he wasn't trying to be the sort of bloke who deserved to be in Gryffindor and not Slytherin, he'd be trying to get Ginny on a date right this instant.

"Let me get my robes on," Harry groans.

\-----

Sure enough, half of the breakfast is eaten. No one's left the hall though. Probably because Dumbledore is at his podium chatting with two men in fancy robes–one of them Barty Crouch—and looking over some big thing covered by a sheet.

Katie Bell greets him before Hermione. She's got her head down, looking in a mirror and scrubbing her cheeks with some sort of makeup brush. Angelina waves from next to Katie and Alicia Spinnet is across from her. The Gryffindor chasers don't appear one at a time anymore. They've been moving in a pack and asking Harry and the boys on the team to keep an eye out ever since someone scrawled 'quidditch fox hunt' and painted a nasty image of Katie on the wall near the Fat Lady's portrait. Harry can't imagine messing with _one_ of them, even about something small. Being fresh with Katie Bell is how Dean Thomas nearly got his bludgers separated from his broomstick in the Common Room last term. Voldemort himself would be suicidal to try and cop a feel if they're all together.

"Hi, Harry!"

"Hiya, Katie. Looking forward to our first game?"

"No," she grumbles. "It's supposed to be Hufflepuff, based on last year's final rankings. And you know what the Smith twins are like. Those ladies could swat a boulder around as easily as a bludger. Count your limbs now so we can do the math when we put them back on."

"Tess is crazy fit though," Katie says, smacking some lint off one of the red flannel shirts she likes to wear.

"Use a wandless shield charm," Hermione mumbles without looking up. "You can't take your wands, but defensive magic is legal under the rules. Something like a bludger wouldn't hit that hard compared to a stunner. You'd only be able to have one hand on the broom, but for anyone but Harry, it'd work."

"Did she say _wandless_ shield charm?" Alicia sputters.

Fred chimes in. "Like dueling shield? Not like, lint shield for the laundry?"

"Sure. Loads of semi-pro and pro duelists and magical militias use them. Put the shield charm in the off-hand since it just needs to be a ball of outwards-facing force but something like a shield-breaker curse or a flame charm needs lots of precision, which takes wandwork."

"Hermione said it, so it's possible. Hermione doesn't like impossible things. Sad, really."

"Luna!" Harry squawks, knocking a pumpkin juice pitcher down his front.

Not only is Luna a bit...unique...she's bloody near silent when she walks and she never interrupts people lost in thought. So when she does speak, it's like a friendly boggart jumping out to ask a weird question or observe something about how that cloud looks like a curly-ended skrewt.

Someone in Ravenclaw needs to put a bell on her.

"I'm sorry, Harry Potter. I can see that it was important to balancing your thought process that this seat be empty. I can hear the process getting all scrambled because of my weight on the bench. If you like, I can show you my wrackspurt imitation. They're quiet creatures, wrackspurts are."

"Angelina, Katie, Alicia" Hermione says, gesturing to Luna. "This is Loo--hmm!-- _Luna_ Lovegood."

"It's fine, Luna," Harry chuckles. "You can sit here. So beside being murdered by the Smith twins' hook shots, do we know what else is on tap this week? Katie? Luna? Anyone?"

"New Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," Katie says after a chomp of toast with some of her protein shake on it.

There's a plastic bag in her backpack and her wand's out so she probably packed the bread in and toasted it with a flame charm.

"That's like saying 'Hogwarts is in Scotland'," Hermione reminds them. "Hagrid is back for Magical Creatures. He wasn't here last night because he was mucking around with some secret project in the that big field behind his hut."

"Do we know anything about this Dark Arts teacher?" Harry asks. "He's not Lockhart's less-attractive but better-at-magic brother, or one of the vampires that got Quirrell before You-Know-Who got him, is it?"

"Oh no," Luna chirps. "It's Mad-Eye Moody. My dad remembers him from the war. He came out several times, dad says, when Death Eaters poisoned our dirigible plums and evasive peaches. Charmed our dust bins to grow hooks and try and slash anyone in a dark cloak and a mask. Quite the famous duelist as a young man."

"Used to be Head Auror. I think he retired because he thought he'd had enough face pieces swapped. Bit of a shame. Dad and I always say that fashion is a bit too narrow nowadays."

_Fashion is too narrow, says the pureblood girl in a frilly muggle ballerina skirt on top of formal Ravenclaw robes with an American muggle ball cap on, turned backwards._

"Dad's terribly jealous," Luna tells them.

With Luna, it's never clear if she's speaking to them, or just saying words into the air in case someone needs them wafting around later to patch up a sentence. "He says he might come visit at the Yule Ball to catch up."

"The what now?" Harry asks.

"Yule Ball," Hermione grumbles. "Syllabus."

Harry's had three years to learn when to shut up, take the parchment, and quit bothering her.

\-----

Dumbledore taps his wand on the podium's edge, making a mighty clang! that rings around the hall.

"So!" he says, smiling at the students. "Now that you've slept off the rain, I need to I give out a few notices.

"Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-Yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever Bashing Boomerangs. Madam Hooch would like to add that any student caught with turbocharging broom polish shall be struck from the Quidditch teams."

"Due a shortage this morning of Sighing Sage and Whisperweed in the greenhouses despite a full inventory last night, which she needs to comprise a large quantity of Reality Inducing Rub, Professor Sprout will be searching the personal potion ingredients and chests in all the dormitories, beginning with seventh year girls and moving on to boys after she searches third-years. On this note, I would like to remind you that any form of lip-lure balm, love potion, pinking cream, and goatsweed juice are strictly forbidden as they are not appropriate for young men and women. Nor are they suitable for anyone of such good manners as I'm sure you all are."

"Don't make a stiffy potion," Ron mumbles. "Got it."

"Charming, Ronald."

"I've tried pinking cream," Katie whispers, leaning close to Harry. She glances at the new Hufflepuff prefect, a wide-hipped Italian girl with a dazed expression, slightly sweaty golden skin and curly black hair going every which way. "Just last night. Works a treat. Just so you know in case you meet that special lady, hmm?"

"What are you on about?" Harry asks, genuinely puzzled.

"I didn't say anything," she lies. "Madam Rosmerta, behind the counter, third shelf. You have to ask."

Ron fancying Hermione is weird, but he can get his head around the why of it. Katie's newfound 'help Harry get into trouble' act is just plain baffling. If he had any friends who are blokes and have big sisters, he could ask if that's what she's doing.

The corners of Dumbledore's mouth twitch.

"As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out of bounds to students, as none of the creatures there are so friendly and interesting as Tickly the Squid, who I've asked to stay out of the shallows after Misters Crabbe and Goyle were injured by a large lump of thrown seaweed last term."

"Aww!" groans little Dennis Creevy from a few seats down.

"He's nice," he huffs, crossing his arms.

"She, actually. No question, at that size. The males get sort of scooped inside during mating, keeping the essential bits. Prevents arguments about dirty dishes after you get what you need, I suppose."

Hermione says lots of strange things, in Harry's view. That's a new record.

"Also off limits is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year. As for those above third year, Madam Rosemerta sent me a rather large bill for torn up pillows and scratched tables in the upstairs rooms, so I must insist that any student renting a room there behave respectably."

"Next, it is also my painful duty to inform you that the inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year as the stadium is needed for other things. Instead, we will have two rounds held on the Saturday before Halloween. Each team from Hogwarts will take on one other team, and the two winners will take on the teams from Durmstrang Institute and Beauxbatons Academy. The lovely ladies of the Holyhead Harpies have volunteered to play any all-girls team of fifth years and up that can be assembled for the final exhibition game at end of term."

Dumbledore smirks.

"In the interest of being sporting, I have allowed the Harpies to play with one player of theirs to each two of ours."

Ginny Weasley leaps to her feet with a whoop.

"They're really good," she mumbles, sinking back down with cheeks blushed red as her hair. "And the lead chaser's a ginger."

The hall chatters and grumbles at quidditch being canceled and Dumbledore sets an hourglass on his podium and turns it over.

"That's kinda brilliant," Katie tells Harry. "No way we win. They're top of league. Three of the current Irish National Team started in Holyhead and more than half of the women in the English National Team over the years. Their seeker's like a gunshot and their beaters are bloody archdemons, from what I can tell. Shot went wild and one of them put a bludger straight through the top box last year. Nearly ripped Draco Malfoy's great uncle in half. Accident. Probably. Pretty sure their keeper's got nine arms, given some of the saves she's made. We'll get trounced."

"But if I do decide to go pro? Losing with style to a team like that while still in school would make me a shoe in. Especially if I was only a sixth year or something."

"Huh," Harry replies, looking at Ginny. "Wonder if they'd ever do it again?"

"'Mione, what's a Durmstrang?" Ron asks.

"Third greatest school of magic in Europe," Hermione coolly replies.

"There's three?" he exclaims.

Hermione puts her hand up over her head.

"Beauxbatons Academy of Magic."

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," she adds, putting her other hand below it by an inch or two.

"Durmstrang Institute," she sniffs, moving the hand down somewhere near the bench.

"There's really a lot of info in _An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe_ and before I came here, my dad made me read it to be sure this is the right school. Those three in Europe, plus one in Russia that no one talks about. There's also Ilvermorny in the US, Uagadou in Uganda, Castelobruxo in Brazil--that's actually an all-girl's school--and Mahoutokoro in Japan. Two schools, really, boys and girls separated by a moat."

Harry wonders if a moat down the middle of the Gryffindor commons might help Ron get over it.

"'Mione," Ron says, tapping his fork on his knuckles. "You put Hogwarts second."

"If I could have your attention back!" Dumbledore calls out.

"Now, before I am pelted with cartloads of soggy toast and the house-elves cleaning it up have me sacked, let me tell you the reason we need the quidditch pitch. This year, Hogwarts will be hosting the 211th Triwizard Tournament. For those of you who are not familiar, this tournament draws draws one champion each from Durmstrang, Hogwarts, and Beauxbatons. It is is the oldest shared venture of the nations of Magical Europe. Before you correct me to say that the 422nd Quidditch World Cup is older, remember that Triwizard is held every three years, unlike the yearly World Cup."

Ron puts his hand back down.

"The tournament has been suspended for twenty-one years following the death of a student from Drumstrang and the maiming of one from Beauxbatons in the last tournament. Before I go on, I must impress upon you not to enter this lightly. The Triwizard Tournament is extremely dangerous. The early tasks were inspired by a battle royale in ancient France that was used to train people to be dragon-hunters, giant-herders, tomb-mappers, and other extremely dangerous professions. Any student under the age of 17--which is to say seventh years--would be incredibly unlikely to survive, so we are banning any entrants below that age."

"The champions chosen will face three tasks. Each task will be secret until the moment it is begun."

"Over the years, Hogwarts has won seventy-three times to Beauxbatons seventy-two, and the rest were either three-way failures in the first task or canceled due to fatalities before the third task."

"That's barbaric," Hermione grouses. "I can't believe you English people think this is a _game."_

_You English people? How long was Hermione in France, anyhow?_

"Why wouldn't it?" Ron asks. "Loads of blood in quidditch."

"They don't use quidditch to teach people how to kill the most dangerous magical beast on the planet, Ronald. That's how it's different."

"Riiiiight," Katie teases. "You do realize that killing a dragon is loads easier than stopping one of the Smith girls with a bludger bat, don't?"

Dumbledore waves his hand, and the sheet on one of the two lumps behind him is whipped off. Underneath was a stone pillar with a big cup at the top literally carved out of the stone—with white fire burning inside it.

"The Goblet of Fire!" he calls out.

"This magical artifact will determine which of the students entering is most worthy of representing their school in the Tournament. At midnight tonight, it will be extinguished and lit again. From midnight tonight to sundown eight days from now, entrance will be allowed. Any student wishing to enter must put their name on a piece of parchment and throw it into the fire."

"At three sharp, I need all of you back here, in your dress robes, to welcome our guests. They will settle into their dorms and rejoin us for dinner."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you with common sense and a less than encyclopedic knowledge of dangerous folk medicine, saltpeter is supposed to lower sex drive and was given to prisoners, copper miners, etc. to keep them focused. There is no evidence it actually works. I just like the idea of wizarding expressions like 'easy as drying a mermaid' or 'stuffing a veela into saltpeter' as references to very difficult or unpleasant things.  
> \-----  
> Gwenhwyfar is the fully Welsh spelling of Guinevere of King Arthur mythology, and since Merlin canonically exists in the Potterverse, so too should Morgana, Morgause, Uther, Nimueh, Guinevere and all those. As you'll see in another of my stories, I like the idea of the three-witch mythological unit between Morgana, Nimueh and Morgause. Who's to say Guinevere didn't pick up some tricks from her 'Uncle Merly' or her goth sister-in-law Morgana?  
> \-----  
> I fell in love with this testimony to the collected witches of the high houses and "Cissy" running into her fling from 4th-7th year while talking to the pureblood witches about their marital problems. I think that Narcissa is the single most likeable character on the 'dark side' by a good margin. She's just a very protective mom in a nasty marriage with a bigoted, abusive husband. Narcissa will do anything for her little boy. She's what Harry's mom might have been if she married the wrong guy.  
> \-----  
> The riddle Hermione uses is solvable, but requires a solid muggle education to do so. It's something the nerdy daughter of two well-educated muggles might know because she learned it for family game night.
> 
> It's a riddle mentioned by Plato that works in Greek but not in a literal translation to English.
> 
> "There is a story that a man and not a man  
> Saw and did not see a bird and not a bird  
> Perched on a branch and not a branch  
> And hit him and did not hit him with a rock and not a rock"
> 
> The answer is **"A eunuch who did not see well saw a bat perched on a reed and threw a pumice stone at him which missed."**.
> 
> Solving it requires figuring out that a bat is going to look like a bird to someone with bad eyesight and that a reed is like a branch but is not a branch. Beyond this, solving relies on knowing that Greeks truly considered eunuchs an additional category, not simply males with no testicles and most importantly that the Greek verb for "to hit" can also indicate "trying to hit" or "taking aim".


	12. "Shaking the Bones Speech" - Witch History 100, Second Reading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A witch-power interlude!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of rape in regards to Boudica, an ancient British chieftainess, warrior queen and absolute bonkers historical figure who you should al go read about right now!!! 
> 
> What you see below is actually not a bad summation of her story either. She did sack and burn two large Roman towns, one a garrison town (e.g. soldier's wives, families) and of them the trade city of Londonium. Total causalities were about 80,000 Civilian on the Roman side and she raised as many as 150,000 ancient tribesmen and women in her horde.
> 
> <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boudica>

## "Shaking the Bones Speech" - Witch History 100, Second Reading

_"It is not merely the fact that we still have betrothal contracts and curses that disgusts me. What disgusts me is that for all our magic, we cannot find any way to increase our numbers that doesn't involve putting spells on infants so that they will breed when their families need them to. If we cannot replace our numbers by way of murdering each other less and falling in love more? As that clever muggle Darwin noted we are not fit to survive."_

_"In the first days of magic, our foremothers drove out the Romans for their raping. The mightiest muggle empire of the ancient world had marched too far north and took from the wrong mothers! Rome at her apex shattered on Pictic, Gaelic, Celtic, Anglican and Igeni wands, my sisters."  
_

_"Boudicca's daughters were avenged by the sack of two garrison towns, including Londonium itself. She let a campaign that killed a eighty thousand Romans in vengeance for the rape! When she was done, no Romans but the Legionnaires sent to stop her walked on British soil! That is what a British witch and mother looks like!"_

_"Carthage fell! Athens fell! The Gauls fell! But we stood! They paid tribute in slaves and gold, we took our tribute in Roman dead!"_

_"When Morgana herself was about be sold like a cow, she carved a yew wand in the night, begged a dragon for a slice of his heart and by dawn had done to Camelot what two centuries of armies had failed at."_

_"Queen Elizabeth had a bastard girl by a squib she kept in her stable. Emily escaped the midwife's strangle and by twenty had left a trail of dead husbands, empty coffers and sticky sheets from Normandy to Greece. When the muggle church and its armies chased her into the ocean, she took her pleasures on seas from Cape Town to Haiti! A few drops of Cruel Emily's blood thunders in my veins, the only of my blood not of a pure line. Call me a mudblood or murderess' spawn for it if you like. I welcome being kinswoman to such a witch."_

_"That is what Saxon witchery looks like! Now we shuffle in our manors and mumble through talks trading our daughters for galleons before they take their first step. Are we bitches at a dog breeder, or are we Saxon witches?"_

_"How have we forgotten the lessons those witches gave us? Did your sweet husbands take your backbones when they deflowered you? Are your brains in your heads or between your legs?"_

_"My beloved sisters, when did we stop being conquerors and become cockwarmers?"_

_"We did this to ourselves, make no mistake. Wizard cannot do to witch what witch will not allow him. Their weapon is laws and scrolls and our meek assent. So law is my weapon too! In my hand is a copy of The Druidess' Codex, with all its crudeness, ferocity and finality. This sat unused and uncalled upon for centuries in the Ministry's library. The pile of dust covering it was thick as a bear's winter pelt."_

_"Today, I call on it. The mother's right, the daughter's right and the maidenhead's price will once again be enforced. In front of you you will find Susan Bones' Law, named after my niece, contracted against her will and her mother's too. Before she was born, my niece was entered into a betrothal and breeding curse. She has been cursed to bear an heir for House Bones because I chose not to. My brother has already paid his price in a duel with his wife before she was murdered by the Dark Lord. Even the Dark Lord knew better than to send his thugs after Janey. He went himself and he fought treacherously. He knew never to take on a Bones in her home in a fair fight."_

_"From this day on, the only determinant of a witch's wedding and breeding shall be the witch's choice! Let her marry wizard! Witch! Half-blood! Muggleborn! Muggle! Veela! Vampire! Mermaid, if she's not prone to seasickness!"_

_"All families will be required to present the child at six months, nine months and twelve months to St. Mungo's for our curse-breakers to examine. Any family found placing any bloodline ward, chastity ward, breeding curse or any such curse on a child--boy or girl--will be treated as having engaged in line theft, exactly as we treat rape in a noble bed. They shall be fined two million galleons per curse, one million each to the families of both sides of the bargain and continuing through any families linked by marriage until the coffers of the houses involved are spent or the fine paid."_

_"Let your children chose, or my aurors will make you do so. To those of you who think I might not be able to enforce this, I shall remind you that I am the Wand of Justice. Not the minister. Hang his support. My aurors are ready to carry this order out by house-raids with wands drawn if needs must. If you wish to take this matter up personally, my house elf Primsy is my contact for dueling appointments and Primsy's consort Topple makes brilliant last meals, so I am led to believe._

_"If bloodlines are all you care about, know that I am by niece of a Snapdragon and a Wyvern, daughter of Rose Snapdragon bones. Third-descent from a Rosier, ninth of a Black, thirteenth of a Peverell. I am proved kin to Snapdragon, Whitelance, Pendragon and Flamefeather by forty-four proved maternal links and ninety-three paternal."_

_"Obey the law or face my aurors. Challenge this law, and you have challenged me. I so swear to duel any man, woman or beast that tries to repeal this long-overdue law. But I feel I should remind you that a Bones always breaks."_

_"My niece will live and love free, or we can all hang."_

_"Thank you, mister speaker."_

  
**\--Madam Amelia Bones (Head of House), Auror First Class and acting head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement whilst testifying November 3rd, 1981 before the assembled Wizgamot.**

**Though they were aware of Madam Bone's agitation on this issue, in the chaos with You-Know-Who having fallen only three days prior the ministry was too busy to deny her the floor. Afterwards, knowing she had a lethal auror corps honed by purging stray Death Eaters following her in lockstep as their most-battle tested leader, none above her in the ministry dared object two days later when called a secret vote of all adult pureblood witches and half-blood witches pure on the maternal side. This vote passed the law sixty-nine to seventeen.**

**Given without amplifying her voice and in her trademark fist-shaking, hostile style to the point that one bailiff fainted and using rather colorful in language for the chamber, it was gleefully reprinted by all magical newspapers worldwide.**

**Eyewitnesses report that she was clearly exhausted and that she was in bloodstained auror field gear and had the broken wand and bloodied mask of a Death Eater in hand while giving the speech. By the timing it is likely Wilkes, the Welsh-born Death Eater who resisted arrest and was killed when he came to the aid of Evan Rosier who was dueling Alastor Moody. This tactic was known as the 'mouse and scorpion' because the second auror would bide their time in hiding until the feigned exhaustion of their comrade brought in a second, overconfident Death Eater expecting to share an easy kill with the first.**

**When playing mouse, Moody would only accept Bones as his scorpion.**

**Patrilineal druidic law codes were codified as Wizarding Britain's common law.**

**Matrilineal druidic law runs parallel to Ministry law and whichever law stipulates the greater criminal penalty or civil redress takes precedence and is judged on the merits of that code.**

**Susan Bone's law relies on matrilineal druidic law. Unused and often forgotten, these codes remain as a last-resort weapon for pureblood witches. Only women can judge and enforce, vote on or repeal the matrilineal codes, meaning that it is the very mothers of these children who sit in judgement of the violators. In fact, no wizard can read one of the tomes, though a witch acting as his lawyer can read it to him. The ministry's prior laws on binding infants for marriage fined 10,000 galleons and only for chastity curses without both parent's consent, making the matrilineal punishment the active one. Susan Bone's Law will remain in effect until the Ladies of the Wizgamot repeal it or the ministry implements a stiffer law for the same offense.**

**Under the new law, any marriage-enforcing contract or curse in the future would be fined so heavily that few houses could survive being caught. In blatantly offering to fight to the death to enforce this, Amelia Bones essentially put the Lords of pureblood houses in situation where they either accepted being emasculated in how they raised their own children, or they could risk death fighting her.**

**Tens of millions in fines have been collected so far and multiple families bankrupted. By the time the law was taken seriously, the Ministry's Office for Witch Affairs had coffers equal to ten years' gross taxes. Some have suggested using it to fund an all-female school of magic to replace Maeve's ancient school of witchery in Ireland. Nine Lords have died challenging the law to date, including one just-elected minister who campaigned on ending it, forgetting that even a minister can be called to duel by the head of an Ancient and Noble House. His was the second shortest term of office after Thomas "Tripping Tom" Watson in 1857, whose lovable clumsiness worked against him when fell down the stairs at his inauguration and broke his neck.**

**The Bones Manor house elves have been overheard referring to the family dueling ring downstairs as "the pig-cutting pit".**

**Combined with her Auror prowess, Amelia Bone's unexpected success in to-the-death duels against many notable opponents caught the eye of theoretical mediwitches. In their studies of witches like Amelia Bones and Bellatrix Lestrange (who they had full access to in Azkaban), they found both of them to be exceptionally powerful magically. Both are physically imposing specimens. They show little to no sign of the fluctuations of magical and physical health that most purebloods of either gender suffer due to the narrow gene pool.**

**This in turn led to case studies of the unusually powerful and hardy witches of the Bones, Prewett, Rosier and Black families (two light, two dark). Notably, the Prewett and Bones families frequently intermarry with Pendragons, Snapdragons, Whitelances and Flamefeathers. Rosiers have married Flamefeathers and Whitelances so often that the families jointly developed a runic tattoo that can, upon skin contact, separate and forcibly put robes on cousins who might not have been aware they were blood related when the robes came off.**

**The Blacks must draw their power from a different well, though the incredibly high number of metamorphmagi among the Blacks is probably an indicator of some kind.**

**This finding led to discussions of the strong possibility that ancient magic has its origins in the witch, not the wizard. This is sometimes cheekily called "Lilith or Adam?" in a nod to the muggle phrase "Chicken or the Egg?".**

**It is widely assumed that the prevalence of witch-loving-witches and wizard-loving-wizards in the Bones family tree influenced her decision after her niece Susan was born, as it is not unlikely that Susan might take after one of her grandmothers or either of her great-grandfathers in her tastes.**

**Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood were mentioned in the Daily Prophet as the first famous daughters born after the ban, although the likelihood that such Light-aligned and unconventional families with centuries of strong female leadership ever engaged in a contract or curse on their daughters is laughably small.**

* * *

## "Fall of Camelot and the Rise of the Quartet" - Witch History 100, Third Reading

  
return this packet to Hermione Granger or be hexed!!!

The families of Snapdragon, Pendragon, Whitelance and Flamefeather are referred to as the Camelot Quartet. Though none exist in a legal sense due to marriage records and inheritances missing, all four bloodlines can be traced by blood-seers. They are what are called honorific names, given to those who submit to both trials of magical strength and examination to prove bloodlines. Snapdragon has re-emerged as a true House complete with an estate and a family tree circa the 18th century when identical triplet Flamefeather girls married a Prewett, a Whitelance and a Bones, respectively.

Adult males seeking the Snapdragon, Pendragon or Flamefeather names as an honorific must name a close female blood relative who can sit with a blood seer for three moons (and the resulting menstrual cycles) to be able to determine what the druidesses called 'the womb's truth'. With the exception of daughters born to known mothers, females seeking these names must be of sufficient age to regularly menstruate and must sit these themselves. Unlike the others, Whitelance can be proved without a womb-truth, as it is male-anchored and can be determined by basic blood scrying.

 **Flamefeather **is a line defined by Nimueh, Morgause and Morgana, who were lovers and pioneers in early witch-witch reproductive magic. It is indicated by Nimueh's faerie blood, traces of a distinctive curse laid down by Morgause during the ritual and Morgana's Pendragon blood. Those wishing this honorific must have a command of at least one faerie-specific magic like fae sight but not be susceptible to iron. Most have either black hair and light blue eyes or brilliant red hair and dark green eyes. 

As the first known example was a witch who was a quarter human, half veela and quarter erissan, the name Flamefeather was used.

_{HG's NOTE: Errisans are a dipolar creature related to dementors under the Fourth Law of Magical Zoology. Dementors are repelled by happiness, erissans are repelled by sadness. Erissans are the dementors only known predator and are significantly more powerful but fewer in number. Visually resemble the enlarged ghost of attractive man or woman wrapped in a shroud of white, red, or purple flame that does not burn skin when touched. Most are able to use an innate form of apparation-like flight magic, not unlike dementors. Prolonged exposure leads to the human adopting the thrill-seeking, gluttonous, and nymphomaniac behavior of the erissans. Stable relationships have formed on the 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' principle or using talismans tuned to a given erissan.}_

_{HG's NOTE: Veela and sex-demon hybrid? Please!}_

_{HG'S NOTE: Investigate relation to 'dark veela' mythology...}_

**Pendragon **was the family of King Uther and King Arthur and his wife Guinevere. Guinevere, who unbeknownst to her muggle prince had been trained by her friend Morgana, was the only witch of the line. With Guinevere's death, the line was believed lost. In the early 9th century, rumors of exceptionally deadly and hot-tempered women with dark blonde hair and arresting blue eyes circulated, leading to an investigation that discovered common blood among them. Six women anchor the resurgence of the line, all of them accomplished self-taught witches. Due to the troubles that come from muggles with being named after King Arthur, most do not seek this name, or use it as a middle name.

_{HG's NOTE: And I thought Harry had a name he might not want!}_

**Snapdragon **is the name given to those who can prove both Pendragon and Flamefeather descent, and is defined by just three witches, all sisters. Historians call them the Maidens of Death because of their prominence as freelance raiders in the English invasion of Scotland in the 12th Century.

_{HG'S NOTE: Possibly explains the reconquest of Scotland after William Wallace's rebellion? Compare Chapter 5 to muggle libraries on holiday.}_

**Whitelance** is unique among the Quartet in being male-anchored. Named after a wolf's pack of troublemaking 16th-century rakes whose exploits led to angry husbands arresting them. Through ministry monitoring of the fornication trials, and subsequent blood-seer and womb-truth traces, it became clear that they shared Guinevere's blood but not Arthurs. suggesting that the legends of Lancelot's affair with Queen Guinevere were true. Given the sheer number of children these men sired and the children's mothers wishing it covered up, most do not seek out the honorific even if eligible. A notable exception is an escort who goes by Saint George's Lance with his co-stars and features frequently in _Playwitch_ Magazine and muggle Amsterdam's live sex shows.

_{HG's NOTE: McGonagall said she taught him. Funny story there. Need more info. Extra credit project?}_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wouldn't let me eat breakfast until I wrote it. We'll also see a new elective at Hogwarts: "Witches History" which serves the place of a university's Women's Studies department.


	13. A Silencing Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Harry has to explain it to Ron...

_"If you want your mates to piss off, go try your luck on the veela at the bar. Either you'll be wearing hers and paying her tab, or by morning tea you're the luckiest bastard to ever polish his own wand. Either way, she shared a drink."_ **  
**

**Popular saying in working-class bars in Dover, Normandy and other areas of heavy English-French interaction. Originally popularized by self-deprecating comic Wilt the Wandless.**

_"Sink your cock in feathered cunt! You'll be dead by dawn! Awaited by fifty moaning Valkyries!"_

**Saying among Viking wizards, first found in 6th century carvings and probably the origin of Wilt the Wandless' anecdote. The short tempers of the Oslo and Helsinki flocks are well documented and seem to be reinforced by teaching of children. The region's so called 'feral' or 'dark' veela are known to (on occasion) badly maim sexual partners. Standoffishness by the established flocks and the risk of accepting a feral's advances probably explains the lack of human-veela hybrids in the area.**

**Unknown who popularized it, given that aurors in Sweden have a term for veela harassment: suicide-by-groping.**

* * *

**Harry**  
  
(Hogwarts, September 2, First Day of Term, Fourth Year)

The wind slashing through the entrance courtyard seems to be trying to remind them that this is Scotland, they're halfway up a mountain, and it's fall. Get inside or face the consequences...

Ravenclaws are arranged in three neat columns across the courtyard from them. The Slytherins and Hufflepuffs are down by the lake where two huge tentacles with spoon-shaped tips packed with what must be a ton of kelp each are waving menacingly. Malfoy must have really pissed the squid off.

They haven't been told much, but it seems that one of the visiting schools will arrive in the front fields and one by the lake or possibly in it.

"I'll be arranging you by house rankings. Miss Granger up front, please. First row, left side. Potter next to her. Mister Weasley in second row, behind Granger. Miss Weasley!"

There's no reply, not even the terrified whimper that Ginny makes when someone other than Ron, Harry, or Hermione talks to her.

"She's a bit out of it, ma'am," Hermione tells McGonagall. "Might need to use her name. I think she needs to see Madam Pomfrey more often. She's not well."

"Ginny Weasley, dear? Please come up front."

That's the softest he's heard McGonagall. Ever.

Ginny shuffles up. It's heartbreaking how she acts. No one blames her for the cursed diary. Gryffindors have gotten dozens of detentions and suffered black eyes, split lips and slug-puking hexes sticking up for her with Slytherins disappointed that she failed to unleash Voldemort and Hufflepuffs angry that her 'pet snake' hurt a friend. Jimmy Tilberts recovered like everyone else, but that house rises and falls on its loyalty and unity. Hurt one 'Puff, the rest of the badgers come for you.

If they ever argue with each other, it's only in Hufflepuff dormitories.

Maybe Harry's grasp on what's scary is broken. There's no maybe about it...it is broken. Still seems like Ginny should be doing a bit better, after all those visits to Saint Mungo's. He'll have to see if he can help Hermione get Mrs. Weasley alone with Mrs. Granger. They're equally terrifying mums and Molly won't be able to say no to muggle therapy, not to the face of a muggle doctor. Particularly if Mr. Granger has Arthur in the next room, bamboozled with a cheap electric toothbrush.

"Stand next to Potter, Miss Weasley. Potter, act like a bloody Gryffindor for a change. She's nervous. Hold the lady's hand."

"Err, right."

He offers Ginny his hand, and she grabs it with all her might and both of hers. Her hands are cold and sweaty. She makes a sort of cooing sound like a pigeon and soon after, her hand is almost uncomfortably hot.

Hermione raises her hand.

"Ma'am," she says, back to being the girl ready to stab Snape raising her hand to get an answer to something she's curious about.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"I've never heard of house ranking. It wasn't in _Hogwarts: A History_ or _Student Bylaws, Volume I-III._ "

She blushes. "I haven't gotten to Volumes IV-VII yet."

McGonagall looks frightened at the idea that Hermione's read any of the student handbooks. They're thick enough that one of them on the end of a strong pole would make a dandy troll-killing hammer. He remembers Hermione complaining in the third week of first year that they were 'practically untouched' and wondering if Hogwarts wasn't taking itself seriously. What a difference a three-headed dog makes. He never did hear where Hagrid sent Fluffy. She wasn't killed, he knows that. If the Daily Prophet is to be believed, there was quite the fuss removing Professor McGonagall's heavy chain muzzles, so the staff didn't hurt her coming to rescue them.

"It's not exactly official, Miss. Every head of house has some way of keeping track of which students do best at living up to house values. Grades, behavior, acts of service. Mister Potter's behavior has given my great-grandmother gray hairs, Merlin rest her. But his acts of service to school and his fellow man would make Godric proud. By my estimate, Miss Granger would have to blow up the castle to drop her behavior score enough to move her below third place."

Ginny shivers.

"My grades aren't that good, ma'am."

"Some of them are. They will be again. Potions has never been easy on the Gryffindors."

Her eyes swing towards the lake.

"Severus seems to think any one of my lions who can't brew Living Death on the third day needs to be flunked out. At least surviving a Potions NEWT from him is a guaranteed spot as an auror."

 _My lions?_ Harry wonders. _I didn't know she thought of us like that._

"Besides, miss. Your behavior in class has been everything my old friend Estella Prewett could have ever dreamed for her grand-daughter. Your Decorum and Society Grade is top-of-stack. You'll be a fine Heiress for House Weasley. I seem to recall hearing that Astoria Greengrass fainted during the ladies' handshake and greeting portion of hostess exams."

Ginny's cheeks pink.

"Astoria asked me to give the...ah, version between good friends. And I think she's ticklish."

"She's not ticklish," Hermione mutters so that only Harry can hear. "Astoria's a real slag when it comes to gingers. Fred and George had to dip their robes Chastity Merrypillow's Down-Girl oil. Expensive stuff."

He'll have to ask Hermione if girls have some clever way of changing which direction a crush goes. Maybe some sort of enchanted mirror? A less-stammering, happier Ginny and a Slytherin that fancies her and who'll speak to them would be an excellent replacement for Harry's embarrassment about his own feelings.

"Now then!" McGonagall hollers, turning away.

"You've been arranged so as to represent the best of our house. The first faces of Hogwarts students they see will be our front row and Ravenclaw's. The students who make up the back two rows will open the door on our side for them. Comport yourself with pride and dignity!"

\-----

Whoever came up with the phrase 'dignity' never saw Ginny Weasley react to thirteen immense flying horses pulling a massive blue-and-silver carriage the size of a bank's office. She lets out a gleeful squeal and has such a big grin that it takes the number one happy memory spot away from catching his first snitch.

"Why you figure that horse is so much further forward?" Seamus asks from the row behind him.

Harry didn't go on vacations but Vernon used to send him to his most-grumpy uncles farm as unpaid labor. They're hundreds of feet away but the horses are bigger than elephants. Maybe even twice as big. Spotting the extra feature isn't hard.

"Well, Seamus, when a mare and a stallion love each other very much..."

"Ah. Say no more, mate."

"Curious," Hermione muses. "Morrocan Abraxan horses-- _equus titanus pegasi tangieri_ \--must have a different mating ritual. Usually it's the stallions who chase the mares."

"Usually coachmen don't have wings and long hair, Hermione. Usually horses can't fly and aren't thirty feet tall."

She smacks his pocket where he put the binoculars.

"Sure," he replies, holding still so she can pull them out.

Hermione whips them out and with three practiced turns, has them in focus. He can barely work them. Story behind that.

"Thank God. It's not her. I couldn't bear it if she fell."

Before Harry can ask about what must be the fourth impossible thing in two minutes, the two students driving the carriage--each holding one rein--pull back hard and one blows a horn. The stallion in front slows down and the dozen mares behind him speed up to try to get to him, making the whole contraption rapidly lose altitude. Just before it hits the ground, clockwork wings shaped like butterfly wings pop out of the lower part of the carriage, beating madly. It still hits the field hard enough for it's Hagrid-sized wheels to slice into the turf until it comes to a stop in a plowed-up pile of mud.

McGonagall claps, making it quite clear they should do the same.

"That's a very difficult elective taught here," she tells Harry. "Professor Blackshield's Abraxan wrangling program is infamous among Care of Magical Creatures professors."

"I do hope she attended," McGonagall admits. "Fierce competitive transfigurer. Everyone else leaves the faculty parlor terribly drunk. I've only beat her once, and only found out my score in the hospital wing two days later."

"Hang on," Ron mutters. "There's Care of Magical Creatures Courses with things that won't eat you?"

"We've been robbed!" he moans.

The clockwork wings rearrange to create a gleaming ramp that leans out over the mud onto the lawn. The double doors open and out steps a _massive_ woman in black velvet robes wearing a round white cap, rather like a bowler hat but with a small point at the top like a miniature witch's cap. She's at least as tall as Hagrid. Probably taller, actually. She's carrying a fancy, old-timey rifle over one shoulder. More like a blunderbuss the size of a ship's cannon.

Hagrid is busily rolling a stack of barrels up to a trough that Professor Flitwick conjured the other day as a demonstration. The stallion is trying to make his way around the far side of the through but three of the mares are already nipping his flanks and tangling their necks with his.

_He's in for a long night._

McGonagall sighs.

"Ah, good. Hagrid knows. They only drink single malt whisky, you see. Buttered rye bread, malt whiskey and cashews."

"Stand tall, Gryffindors!"

"She's having more fun than we are," Ron grumbles. 

"Shush!" Ginny snaps. It's the loudest she's spoken since Harry and Fawkes the Phoenix rescued her from the chamber.

"Note to self," Hermione whispers. "Flying horses make Ginny happy."

"Have to see if I can get her the small version for Christmas," Harry jokes.

Behind the giant woman, three neat rows of students file out. They wear powder blue uniforms with of trousers, a ruffled shirt and a loose overcoat of pale silk. The three rows are broken up by what must be their houses. The head of each row has either a silver cap, a red cap, or a black cap. Each has a silver saber on his or her hip.

McGonagall marches them down the steps, and Flitwick does the same with his Ravenclaws. They meet at the halfway point.

The giant woman curtsies.

"Minerva."

McGonagall bows in return.

"Headmistress Maxine. On behalf of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, welcome."

She dips her head.

"Charmed."

"Please, allow my Gryffindors to escort your Chevaliers and Corsairs inside. I fear Scottish weather might be unpleasant for even your valiant cadets. I'm surprised they're not in winter uniform. No need to prove the bravery of the student militia to me, my friend."

"These are my best and brightest. Our top student, Hermione Granger."

Hermione looks fit to either explode or faint.

"Young Harry Potter."

" _Mon dieu."_

Madam Maxine bows to Harry and he finds himself rather dizzy with all the new information. Hermione puts this much into her brain all the time. Maybe they should just have her and Voldemort study and whoever read more books faster gets to live.

"An 'onor to meet one who sacrificed so much in defense of ze magical world."

"And my best and most ladylike pupil form our Ancient and Noble Houses, Ginerva Weasley, daughter of Molly Prewett and Arthur Weasley."

"Ze 'eiress to 'ouse Weasley. She is quite bewitching. Like ze tender maiden from a storybook."

Ginny blushes and curtseys low.

Madam Maxine offers her hand--the size of a knight's shield--palm up and Ginny places her left hand on the wrist, palm down and drags it slowly, hooking her fingertips just before they pull apart.

"A nightshade 'andshake to make ze Maid of Orleans proud. You each zem well, Minerva. You should ward zis girl's chambers before you 'ave every 'Eir in England burying it in flowers!"

"And ze next?" Madam Maxine asks.

"Ronald Weasley, a stubborn but brave boy. Needs to apply himself but a hopelessly heroic lad."

"Ah. Courage of 'is convictions and a 'ard 'ead. Ze perfect Gryffindor."

"Quite. With him are Seamus Finnegan, quite the gifted pyromancer and entertainer. His beau Dean Thomas. Seamus and Dean will be boarding your Corsairs, whom I hope will not find Seamus too bad of an influence. Mr. Thomas is a well-connected young man, liked by many in all four houses. He can help them navigate the students without leading to disagreements. When it comes to Ravenclaw, Professor Flitwick will give you the details but my colleague is a perfect gentlemen and he'll see to it that only his finest young ladies room with your Fusiliers."

"And ze Chevaliers? My knights will not be with some lout, Minerva. Especially not my most brilliant, our Student-General. She will be coming along soon. Family business. It is common for our Student-General to ride 'erself on such trips as zese. A more dashing entrance, no?"

Hermione sort of wobbles beside Harry.

"Only my best. As requested, your Student-General will stay with Miss Weasley and Granger and Mr. Potter. Our caretaker is opening one of the Lord's Quarters from the old days to give them separate accommodations and we are hoping to get the Lady's Quarters dormitory open soon. Issue with the displacement charms, I'm sorry to say. Isn't securely attached to the building. Hangs at an alarming angle and keeps going invisible."

"Given the ladies he will be sharing his space with, I have instructed Potter to be the utmost in gentlemanly chastity while you are here. You've nothing to fear. His fame leads girls to him, so merely by stepping into the common room, he'll serve as a useful decoy when yours need privacy."

_She did? I guess she just did. Maybe Ginny can give me pointers. No. If she gives me pointers, she'll want me to be her gentleman. Bugger! Maybe if I can arrange for Astoria to hang out with Ginny, she can give me some pointers._

"Zis is satisfactory. Now zen," Madam Maxine says. "Let us feast."

\-----

The great hall is livelier than he can ever remember it being. The staff table looks like a student table, with the laughter and the slapping of arms and the larger-than-usual amount of alcohol. Snape is telling some joke to Karkaroff, the Durmstrang headmaster with wild eyebrows and a massive beard. Dumbledore and Madam Maxine leaned close, whispering and occasionally pointing out this student or that one.

Slytherins are getting along brilliantly with the Durmstrang students in their long wool coats, huge staves they carry and nasty wrought-iron pentagram necklaces and their rather Slytherin-like scowls. Malfoy is practically climbing into Victor Krum's _lap_ to pretend they are friends. The beefy quidditch player eventually picks Malfoy up and plops him in a different seat. His classmates laugh uproariously and smack their flagons of ale together, launching into some song in Bulgarian or maybe Russian that probably has to do with over-friendly ferrets. 

Hufflepuffs are proving they can make friends with anyone from anywhere, especially if they have bread, jam, and roasts. The Durmstrang students there have broken out hip flasks passed them around. Susan Bones and Hannah Abbot are looking particularly sloshed. That, or Susan usually lets Hannah drape over her like a shawl.

Ravenclaws and the Beauxbatons Fusiliers are chattering rapidly in French. Textbooks open on the table outnumber plates of food and some are miming spells, trying to explain the handwork without a wand. No wands in the Great Hall at dinner tonight, they were told.

Harry shouldn't be surprised that the house famous for its grades has so many students who are fluent. Must make their visitors feel welcome. 

Harry feels rather useless, sandwiched between a massive, muscular girl with gray skin that shines like a polished sword and neon blue hair under her cap and a pale, willowy girl with red irises and a waist length braid of inky black hair. He knows only enough French to embarrass himself. Dean seems to know some, which is making him quite popular and poor Dean isn't really interested in being popular with _girls_ so he's having a time of it. Seamus is trying not to laugh too hard at his boyfriend.

Parvati came in, showed Hermione an official-looking scroll with the Gringotts' logo and started bawling. Hermione held her, petted her hair and gave her a long hug. She signaled for a prefect, who helped Parvati excuse herself with Padma trailing behind her.

From the way Parvati was weeping and rubbing her tears on her robes, it was clear that Hermione wished she could have held her longer, or cheered her up with a snog, or something.

Ron making sounds like something got caught in the garbage disposal at the Dursley's.

"Deidre Grainne," the pale girl says, offering her hand.

"Harry Potter."

"So I hear," she jokes.

"That's Nikki Spade on your right. She probably wishes someone at the table spoke Russian or German. Or liked axe-throwing."

Seamus raises his hand eagerly.

_He'll light an axe on fire in five minutes._

Hermione goes back to her seat. Deidre nudges Nikki and nods to Seamus and everyone shuffles. Ginny is in Nikki's place like a shot, her hand digging into Harry's thigh.

"You all right, mate?" Harry asks Ron.

He's not. This is the fourth spoon Harry's whacked him with trying to get his attention.

"Harry," Ron croaks. "I think some of them are _veela_."

Harry scoffs.

"Doubt it. Remember how much of a fool we made of ourselves during the World Cup? The only person acting odd is y-"

Harry feels a fork stab his hand, not quite enough to draw blood.

"Harry!" Hermione whispers. "Look around."

At the Ravenclaw table are four girls with skin so pale and pretty it's like they're made of moonlight. They have long silvery-blonde hair, delicate faces and plump, raspberry pink lips. Their eyes shine like blue jewels all the way across the hall.

Harry had been facing away from them, so he hadn't really noticed them. 

He doesn't really want to be facing away from them? Does he? He's not a fool. He's nobody's fool. He's Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived. He should go over there an ch-

BONK!

Harry hears the plate hitting the back of his head before he realizes Hermione did it. She got out of her chair to do it, too, so he'd been out at least long enough for her to walk around the table.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"Get a hold of yourself, Harry. They're just girls."

"They're more than girls," Ron sighs.

The pale girl on his right chuckles.

"It's a normal effect of a veela on a teenage boy," Deidre assures Hermione. Her accent _is not_ French _._ Irish, maybe. Harry's not sure what to make of her. She's brought a hip flask with what smells like wine and practically wrung her rare steak out to get the juices. Her teeth are amazing--sparkling, in fact--but something about them makes his hair stand on end.

"Thirteen of our students are veela, plus the adorable Gabrielle. Three baobahns, like myself. Five jaegerin, I believe. Two Valkyries. There was an erissan girl who was to come with us but she was not comfortable with the British Ministry's alliance with Dementors."

"Neither are we," Harry, Hermione, and Ginny say instantly.

"Valkyries," Hermione says like repeating it will make it make sense.

"The tall blonde ones who like to sing and drink."

"Frankly," she jokes. "That Potter here hasn't needed to cover his lap with a plate is a mark of distinction. I would thank Mister Weasley to do just that."

Ginny—more alive than she's been in ages—smacks her brother with the envelopes from her mail this morning. She hands him her mostly-clean plate.

"Boys," Hermione huffs.

"Do you all speak French?" Hermione asks.

"It is the school's language," Deidre replies.

Hermione and Deidre launch into a spirited discussion about the weather, or quidditch, or how to not die practicing axe throws with Seamus, or whether you can get cotton candy by shaving a dragon's back. Who knows?

There's a sound like a gunshot and tiny origami birds fly out over the hall, flitting around the staff table before coming to rest in Hermione's hair, robes, and several on the rim of her cup. Hermione makes a rather not-Hermione-like nonsense sound.

In the doorway is a young woman on horseback. Long sheets of gleaming chain hang off the horse. Armor, Harry supposes.

She's wearing a rain-speckled indigo greatcoat. The shoulders of the coat are decorated with silver chains and she wears a black cloak held together by a silver claps shaped like two doves flying into each other. She has a smoking pistol in her left hand and the reins of her horse--a smaller version of the ones pulling the carriage--in her right. Judging by the way Harry's eyes can't focus on anything but her, she's veela too. Clinging to her back is a smaller girl, just like her. They dismount together and she gives the other girl--probably her sister--a hug. She beelines for the quidditch girls a few seats down from them and they sort of wrap her up as a mascot, like they used to do with Harry.

One of the Beauxbatons boys at the Gryffindor table takes the horse's reins and helps it over to the nearest large window. He opens the window and slaps its flank, and the horse leaps out into the storm with a startled whinny.

Hermione stabs him with a fork _again._

"Right. I get it," he whines. "I'll work on it."

"Harry," Hermione snarls. "I don't care if you shag every other girl in this room. _But...not...her."_

"Why d'you say that?" Ron mumbles.

Now would be an excellent time for Harry to just die. Just...stop existing.

The newcomer strides to the front of the great hall, bows low, and turns around before bowing again.

"Students of 'Ogwarts!" Madam Maxine calls out. "I present ze Student-General of ze Cadets of Beauxbatons Academy. Fleur Delacour!"

Dumbledore leads them all in a round of applause. Even Snape is smiling--apparently he can--but the Durmstrang headmaster is not.

"She's _perfect,_ " Ron swoons. 

Ginny, looking rather ill, takes Harry's now empty plate and smacks Ron in the chest. He blushes and puts the plate in his lap.

Fleur walks down the Gryffindor table, whispers something to her sister, and then goes around to the other side where Ron and Hermione are. The boy's heads turn like they're clockwork monkeys and so do Katie, Angelina, Alicia and Lily Moon's. If Parvati was here, she'd probably accidentally shift into her tiger and try to cuddle up in her lap.

As she goes, Fleur pulls a shiny tube of lipstick out of her coat pocket and applies it, turning her raspberry pink lips blood red.

She stops next to Ron and taps his shoulder.

"Ron Weasley!" He exclaims.

"You are in my seat, Monsieur Weasley."

"RIGHT! Right, let me just..."

Fleur runs her hand along Hermione's cheek, puts the other hand in her hair and tilts her head back. She presses her lips to Hermione's. Hermione squeaks and seems to forget to breathe for a long time. Then her hands shoot out and grab Fleur's waist, pulling her down into her lap.

No one is making a sound. It's like the entire hall was just put under the most powerful silencing charm ever.

When they pull back, they're both out of breath. The lower half of Hermione's face is smeared in red lipstick and both their lips are wet and puffy. Golden feathers have sprouted on Fleur's throat and up the back of her neck, two broad stripes. Hermione's cheeks are several shades darker.

"I zink I will like it 'ere," Fleur whispers, tapping Hermione's nose with a finger.

Hermione uses a large platter to sort of lever a paralyzed Ron out of his seat, toppling him to the floor.

Chatter erupts all around them. Someone shouts 'Go Hermione!' in their direction—probably Katie Bell—several of the Gryffindor boys break into tears, and the _entire_ Ravenclaw table erupts into laughs and giggles.

Deidre and Nikki look at each other as if to say 'about damn time'.

"'Mione?" Ron asks in a tiny voice from the floor. "I think I'm going mad. I thought I saw...I thought I saw you kissing her."

"Fuck me..." Harry groans.


	14. The Sort of Thing She Would Notice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Hermione has a study buddy and eagles prey on ferrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will probably only do the highlights of a few classes. Tiptoing through the book, there are several great classes described but I can't do JKRs classroom ridiculousness justice and we're here for the thirsty veela and the sputtering Ron...

_**"** Your mate's desire for you will always taste the same, no matter how old you grow together. If the taste changes, that is not your mate."_

**Advice commonly given to veela girls regarding people attempting to impersonate lovers and spouses.**

* * *

  
**Fleur**

( Hogwarts | September 3, Fourth Year, Second day of Classes) 

Hermione's friend Harry has proved delightful company. She'd expected a preening fellow sliding his arms around whatever girl had fluffed herself in the manner most to his liking.

She expected he would have charm, and brighten a gathering and like Fleur's mother, only tell his whole truth one out of every five sentences. With his fame, it could be forgiven. Surely he had had to master selecting which girl or boy sat on his lap or warmed his bed by now, simply to save time keep his grades up. This would have been normal. This, Fleur would admit, is what she would do if somehow she was the Veela-Who-Lived and held this messianic place in Wizarding history. Why not accept all hands, lips, and flesh offered? Surely her mate would be in the crowds flocking to thank their savior.

Harry either rejects this or is unaware it could be his with an adjustment to his behavior. She's not sure which possibility is more charming.

Fleur went with the Beauxbatons girls and put her name in the Goblet last night. They brought no students on the trip who were not ready to step up. Hermione was unhappy with her, which made her ribs ache.

 _'Couldn't I have you here, without all the risk of death?'_ she'd sniffed.

No fewer than four Hogwarts boys too young to compete tried to breach the age line, only to end up with long white beards and wrinkling-hexes on their faces. Harry went too, but seemingly only to laugh at and along with his schoolmates. 

Harry is a glory-hound, to hear his detractors in the Slytherins. 

The most famous boy in Wizarding Britain--in the wizarding _world--_ is an unobtrusive young gentleman who finds quiet corners of rooms, clears his books off the couch or moves when someone in the common room wants it. Always clears if a couple or good friends want two adjacent seats. He tolerates the greasy haired yellow boy (perfectly named Malfoy) mocks him but when the little runt insults someone else, Potter's anger is instant. It's incandescent and for those trained enough in self-defense to _feel and measure_ magic, it's breathtaking. The surge of his aura when he steps between Malfoy and Hermione puts a grain of truth behind his legend. Whether he was born with that extra depth to his magic and it carried him through the Killing Curse or if surviving scourged that power into him doesn't matter. He is more than a little special. He just doesn't realize it.

A glory hound who does not seek glory, merely chuckles and supports his friends nakedly stupid attempts to get it for themselves.

Harry's carrying her books, perhaps so that the other boys like his friend would stop jockeying for it and perhaps (she can hope) because he means the smile he gives Hermione when Fleur's fingers tangle hers.

The hill behind the school is gentle and spills out onto a flat plain. The groundkeeper's roughly-made, overlarge hut sits at the edge of the forest. Next to it are a series of small paddocks.

"Just..." Hermione begins. "Mind your fingers. Hagrid has odd tastes in experimental animals."

"Zis 'Agrid is your friend, no? Surely 'e would not subject you to somezzing truly dangerous."

Hermione barks in laughter.

_That. I need to make her laugh like that._

"If he thought it was dangerous, he never would. Hagrid's just shit and knowing what critters are dangerous."

The half-giant groundskeeper is dressed up today. His hair is brushed, making it more of a bale of hay rather than a bale, and he's wearing his least-worn moleskin coat. It's endearingly terrible and the only conceivable reason is Madam Maxine's presence. Her classmates have already begun betting on it, using both English galleons and among themselves, the stamped, square copper coins from back home.

Hermione explained that Hagrid never graduated, though at the Headmaster's demand his expulsion is being appealed on new evidence. She told Fleur their friend got the job by a combination of pity and a talent with dealing with lethal magical creatures--more than he can with most people--and has struggled to stay focused as he _himself_ finds ways to get off track.

From the creatures Hermione mentioned having studied--including some never before described ones--Fleur can say confidently that either Hagrid is connected throughout the worldwide black market or Scotland is a terrible deathtrap she must drag her mate from at first opportunity.

"Mornin'!'" he calls out. "We got a right treat!" 

Hagrid is stalling for time and everyone, including most of the Slytherin students, find it charming. He's just so excited to be here. The small yellow one is not happy, nor are his dumber-than-average pet bears he calls friends. 

"A treat?" Malfoy asks. "You've been sacked?"

"Er, no."

Once the words have steeped, Malfoys thugs chuckle. 

No one else does. Not even the swarthy girl glued to Malfoy's side in the most pathetic attempt to trade her gash for gold that Fleur has ever been witness to.

A skillful deployment of Elise and her friends on Gabrielle's suggestion has nearly the entire female Syltherin contingent and any sweethearts of theirs crowded around her cousin and her two best friends, gossiping with to the visitors. Malfoy has prestige, perhaps. Veela have charm and it seems pureblood Slytherin girls gravitate towards that sort of thing.

"Ta-da!"

Hagrid pulls the sheet off the paddocks.

Hermione leans over one to peek. 

Fleur leans to look too. The creatures inside look like lobsters that a chef shelled, cracked the heads off and then forgot to boil, leaving them to scuttle around. She remembers reading about a carrion-cleaning shellfish in deep lakes like this, but those had heads, mouths, sensory organs and the other typical accoutrements of creatures that are alive.

"Zey are certainly...unique."

"Hagrid?" Hermione needles, gently. "These are..."

"They're not prop'r Skrewts. No shells, fer one. Thinking o' callin' em Blast-Ended Skrewts."

One of the creatures in the next paddock over flips into the air on a column of smoke. 

"Mind that," Hagrid mutters. "Sometimes they blast up, not just down."

Seemingly catching on to a trend, several of the ones in the paddock she's watching release some sort of flame from what is probably their anus and fly forward, only to smack what may or may not be their skulls against the crates.

"Blast-Ended Skrewts," Harry agrees. "Perfect name, Hagrid."

"He's going to ask us to raise them. He has no idea what they do," Hermione mutters. "He's just so over the moon to have them."

Hagrid clears his throat.

"We're not real sure what they'll eat an' how they sleep, if there's males an' females an' the like. So you'll be raising 'em as a class project."

"Told you," Hermione whispers.

"'Agrid seems to be enjoying 'imself. Zis is important, to love ze work one does."

"So there's a pail o' food next to each. Grass snake, frog liver an' the like. Try feedin' em. Team with the most adult skrewts gets fif'y points for their house!"

Hermione sighs and passes the bucket of garden snakes to Fleur as Harry gets some note paper out. 

The little yellow boy swans past.

"Bet you princess doesn't get her hands dirty. Bet she makes her little mudblo-"

Fleur's talons sprout and her arm shoots up, yanking Malfoy off his feet. 

"Cods," Hagrid mumbles. "Lookit that! That's a proper veela transformation, that is! Hundred an' fifty points fer...err...whichever house she's with." 

She didn't think. She acted. This boy with hair the color of piss insulted her _mate_ and her veela took over. Now this piece of filth is trying to pry razor-sharp claws away from his jugular. 

"Apologize," she growls.

One of his cronies hits Fleur in the ribs hard as his fat body allows and she grunts, turning her face to her newest attacker. She sees every quiver in each droplet of sweat on his head, every twitch of every pore. These are an eagle's eyes she's looking through now.

"Run," she hisses. "Run, fat boy."

The yellow one is turning purple now. He will apologize with his last breath if he wishes to draw more.

"Fleur," Hermione soothes. "Malfoy's not worth it."

Fleur tosses the stupid creature into the skrewt paddock, drawing breath in huge gulps as she fights her veela.

"Wings," Hermione mumbles. "Feathers. Fire."

She faints. Harry catches her before she hits the ground.

"No!" Fleur cries out.

Hagrid fishes the boy out, brushing one of the creatures off his face.

"Might be time ter learn a lesson here, Malfoy."

Harry helps Hermione to her feet. Fleur wraps her wings--clumsily, she's never had them--around her mate like a blanket.

"Thanks," Hermione sniffs.

Hagrid scratches his massive head.

"Should write all that up, I reck'n. Don't piss nobody off, Malfoy. If they toss ye in, I'll leave ye there till I find some parchment."

Fleur realizes she will have to write her mother. A sudden transformation--winged, no less--is not normal for a quarter-veela. 

Elise comes over and leans on the paddock next to the one Malfoy's sprawled against.

"Fun fact. Sometimes it's called 'a malfoy' if he tries it put it in the wrong hole."

The Slytherin girls erupt with laughter. The one who had been rubbing up on Malfoy looks to Elise for confirmation, and she nods. They don't really need to know that his name means 'bad faith' because if anyone here hadn't figured out this boy is a lying brat, then pointing out that it's literally his name will hardly help.

\-----

She had been looking forward to Defense Against the Dark Arts. It's not taught at Beauxbatons, not as such. They are simply taught self-defense, and later combat. Not specific to dark magic or light magic. The auror who is teaching it has an impressive record.

From a few minutes interaction with Moody, she decided he was pleasant--if ghastly--company. Despite being possessed with an eye that could look through clothing and despite being an older wizard--often the less pleasant sort--he was a perfect gentlemen. Her allure reached out, as it always does and it found no reply.

He didn't want her and resist. He didn't want her period.

Perhaps, like a veela often must, Alastor Moody's body is first and foremost a tool. It would explain the number of badly-healed injuries. He could have had better treatment but there was work to do, or villains, to catch.

As his peg leg thunks down the rows as he hobbles towards the blackboard, Fleur can feel the gaze of his magical eye between her legs. Her allure flicks out and finds an overeager reply, forcing her to breathe deep and push that energy towards Hermione instead.

Alastor Moody didn't care for Fleur _except_ as a warrior.

This man doesn't just lust for her. He's a single fevered twitch away from trying to rape her.

This isn't the Alastor Moody she met at the World Cup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Barty Jr., Polyjuice potion doesn't change your sexual orientation and veela notice that sort of thing.


	15. Loopholes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Fleur and Parvati come to an understanding and watermarks can be very telling...
> 
> Latin vocabulary for spells:  
> "revelio" = reveal  
> "graphus" = writing (in this case, identify handwriting)

_"I find it insane that we send our children to their death based on the whims of an oversized coffee cup."_

**Anti-Triwizard Tournament protestor in 1963, as interviewed in the Daily Prophet.**

* * *

**Parvati Patil**

(Hogwarts, Fourth Year, September 8, First Day of Second Week of Term.)

Parvati stares at the parchment her mother mailed her. She's read it at hundred times but it still doesn't feel _real_ to her.

Someone knocks in the open door.

"Tigger?"

She looks up.

"Hermione?"

"Can I come in?"

"Sure."

"Is it okay if Fleur does too?"

"I guess. Doesn't matter, does it?"

"Why not?"

She hands Hermione the paper.

"Marriage contract."

"These ar-"

"Illegal? Yes. They are illegal as of three months after I was born and apparently, this is something my grandfather snuck through his bank and something my mom could not have undone after the fact."

"Tigger, I'll need some help here. I'm muggleborn. Marriage contracts _aren't a thing_ in my world."

Hermione sits on the bed and puts an arm around Parvati while Fleur perches on the end.

"I have to marry a man or lose my share in the inheritance and any chance to have my marriage or children seen as legitimate. Thus affecting _their_ inheritance, access to Gringotts, ability to use or even read or our family grimoires and potion books..."

"May I?" Fleur asks.

Hermione looks at Parvati, who nods.

"Zere must be a 'undred names!"

Parvati sniffs.

"Yeah. Mum tried. That's as far as she could stretch my options. She didn't know I was gay when I was three months old. Naturally."

"So you only have to marry one?" Hermione asks.

"Yeah. The top thirty have more money, but any of them get me out of hot water."

Fleur looks up from the contract.

"You need to meet zese men. Soon."

"Don't you start!"

"In a 'undred bachelors, zere will be at least one gay man. Likely more. You say words and drink wine and 'e 'as 'is lover, you 'ave yours. You need only bother each ozzer once in a while and only if you want children."

Parvati's head snaps up.

"That...might work. Thanks, Fleur. Wasn't expecting my replacement to help out."

"You are important to 'Ermione. You have a piece of zis woman's 'eart. So you are important to my 'eart."

"Replacement is such a _strong word,_ " Hermione jokes, looking from Fleur to Parvati. 

She can feel her body tense up. She wants to shift and sprint from the room before whatever this semi-telepathic plan they're hatching gets moving.

"Bugger me," she grumbles.

"Not tonight, I zink."

_\-----_

"FLEUR!"

"Innuendo is 'harmless," she sniffs. "Zat fainting was unexpected."

"Can everybody stop being sexy _and_ loud?" Parvati groans.

* * *

**Hermione Granger**

(Hogwarts, Fourth Year, September 8, First Day of Second Week of Term.)

"Please not Fleur, please not Fleur, please not Fleur..."

The Goblet of Fire belches out a long pink flame and a paper umbrella flutters out into Dumbledore's hand.

"The champion for Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour!"

"Fuck," Hermione hisses.

"I will be safe, 'Ermione. I promise."

"Shh!" Ron hisses. "They're naming ours next. Not like they'll beat Krum!"

Another belch, this one green.

"The champion for Hogwarts is Cedric Diggory!"

Dumbledore turns away and gestures to a room off the main hall.

The Goblet of Fire _explodes,_ scattering chunks of stone across the entire hall. Hovering in the ruins is a piece of paper, burnt and writhing like a snake.

Madam Maxine stands up, as does Karkaroff.

"What is zis, Dumblydoor?"

"I do not know, milady."

He plucks the sheet of paper from the rubble and it tries to wriggle out of his grip.

"The Hogwarts champion is... Harry Potter!"

The paper grows a snakelike head and bites him. Maxine snatches the paper mache rattlesnake and cracks its neck.

"Ze 'ogwarts champion is...'Ermione Granger?"

"OH, COME ON!" Hermione bellows.

\-----

"This is _an outrage!"_ Karkaroff roars.

Hermione is backed up against a case full of trophies for snitch-breeding from the late 1400s. Harry, mostly used to insane life-threatening problems, is bonking his head repeatedly against the wood of the frame.

"One...bloody...year...off..."

"I didn't put my name in!" Hermione complains, hoping at least McGonagall notices this.

"Albus, I think that we agree that even if Potter had a fit of temporary insanity and _willingly_ placed himself in this kind of danger, Granger would never do this. Someone tampered with the cup."

"Ze fact that it exploded made zat obvious," Maxine sniffs.

Fleur taps Hermione on the shoulder. She tilts a note in her hand so Hermione can read it.

_'homework warded, right?'_

Hermione jumps up, waving her hand.

"Professor Dumbledore! If I may, because of certain Gryffindors..."

"Sorry," Harry squeaks.

"...having copied my work in the past, I have placed a ward on all of my homework quills, parchment, books, you name it. Have since midway through first year. Anything I write will show up in a different color. So if this _is_ part of my homework, I can tell you more about what happened. I ward each sheet to put my name back on if someone crosses it out and writes their own."

"That's why you keep submitting nine identical essays!" McGonagall exclaims.

Albus rolls his eyes.

"I'd wondered," she admits. "I just marked down fail for whoever didn't submit one in their name."

"If I can see that paper, I can trace who has written on it. May I?"

"Igor?" Dumbledore asks.

"Yes, Fine!" Karkaroff snarls.

"Olympe?"

"It would zeem zat before we get to ze competition, we should see who iz placing the younger students in such danger."

" _Revelio graphus._ "

The scrap of paper straightens out and ghostly yellow letters appear above it. Hermione steps closer. Harry's name in blinking red ink and every few seconds it gets scratched and replaced with Hermione's.

"Harry's name got added after I lifted my quill from it and sealed the charm. But not by Harry, because that's not his handwriting. Besides that, he's in Gryffindor's study club so he'd have no reason to do this. Has been since I founded it with him and Ron."

"Based on the paragraph above, this was torn off the bottom of my paper for the Unforgivable Curses in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Turned it in three days ago. The curse is strong. My ward has probably been struggling to cross out Harry's name and put mine back on ever since. Maybe the name flipping back and forth overloaded the cup."

Fleur looks around.

"Did you not summon Professor Moody to zis? I zink a great auror should be 'elping us catch ze evildoer, unless zere is somezzing 'e wants to 'ide."

"A topic for another day," Dumbledore mutters. "I do feel we have a rather uncompetitive situation here. Three champions for Hogwarts?"

"We can't simply have them back out," Barty Crouch says.

The previously silent bureaucrat looks rather green and is staring into the fire.

"The Goblet of Fire is cursed. If it selects you, you participate to the best of your ability, or lose your magic and your life."

"I invoke my right as 'Eadmaster of a participating institution to invite ozzers. I invite Ilvermorny from ze United States. I name 'Ermione Granger as champion acting on behalf of Ilvermorny."

"I'll do it," Hermione replies. "Harry and I will be competing anyway, so we don't die. If by some mad luck I win, why not give my trophy to someone else?"

Dumbledore smiles.

"That's very magnanimous of you, young lady. Madam Maxine, you are on good terms there. I think that we should invite some students, to cheer Miss Granger on if nothing else."


	16. CODEX -- Faerie Women at Arms:  Notes on Faeries, Beauxbatons Academy, and the Armies of Magical Europe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm treating Beauxbatons a bit differently as I expand on it. The Potterverse's canon doesn't offer much about it besides its likely placement in an alpine region, perhaps in Southeastern France. Because of Nicholas Flamel's canonical attendance, we know it is co-educational.
> 
> Madam Maxine might have brought only female students to Hogwarts (not clear) but at least in the past, the school has had male students and teachers.
> 
> I wanted to differentiate it further from Hogwarts as I expanded it. I decided that this version of Beauxbatons had several key differences and I used these differences to inform my building out of veela, faerie, shapeshifter, and other elements of the world

**Female Types of Faeries**

  * **Baobahn sidhe** (unclear, probably Gaelic)  
  
**-** A geographically distinct group of vampires, native to the British Islands and Iceland. Distinguished from the various nocturnal vampires by their ability to move in daylight, their preference for forests and wilderness over cities and towns and their uncultured, animal-like speech and mannerisms.   
  
They are capable of breathing, speech, peaceful interaction with strangers, the eating of non-blood food (though they cannot survive exclusively on it), and human-style magic. This is what vampirologists call the "five virtues of the living" and forms the hard line between humans and human-like and "monsters" in study of vampires, half-vampires, and turned individuals. Baobahn Sidhe are treated as unregulated faeries rather than vampires by most legal codes and have the same or similar rights to magical humans.  
  



  * **Jagerin** ("huntress" in German) -  
  
Female members of the Wild Hunt of Germanic, Scandinavian and Russian myth. Tall, muscular women with golden irises, skin the color of polished steel and unusual (and often unsettling) natural hair colors like crimson, fuscia, or lime green. They prefer a nocturnal lifestyle and a nearly all-meat diet. Stronger than the top human powerlifters and prone to anger.  
  
Until modern times with the proliferation of rock and roll or punk music, and cosmetic practices like tattooing, they remained outside of human settlements. Only in the late 20th century could a woman with gray skin, green hair, huge biceps and yellow eyes possibly move among regular humans. Even now, only so many heavy metal bands hire women for security staff.  
  



  * **Leanan sidhe** ("Fairy-Lover" in Scottish Gaelic) -  
  
A pseudo-vampiric faerie, the leanan sidhe are fair skinned, either red, black or golden haired, and graceful in movement. Like veela they are always incredibly beautiful and they need love affairs as much as other creatures need food.   
  
Rarely distinguishable from the veela in the Irish, Scottish, or French and Dutch flocks, at least on quick acquaintance. Only if the veela shifts or the leanan sidhe is observed for a period of many years do the differences become clear.  
  
In fact, some consider the leanan sidhe proto-veela. Some think that the veela's bargain with the Mother of the Winds was struck in order to blend in better, love humans at non-lethal intensity, and lead normal lives. This theory holds the need to mate or die and the more animal qualities like feathers, wings, and claws were a punishment or a reminder of the debt. If the truth was ever written down, it was written in High Veela script by the ancient nests and as such, will never be known outside the flocks.  
  
The difference between the species (besides the veela's shape-shifting) is entirely in the pattern of the love affair:  
  
A veela is are attracted to one lifelong love affair, during which both she and her partner increase in strength, soundness of mind and physical health. (Some veela do have other lifelong lovers but one is identifiably first in their hearts and invariable that one wears the mate mark.)  
  
A leanan sidhe will live her centuries in a string of intense, short affairs, typically with artists or scientists, each more tempestuous and productive than the last. They do not take blood or meat from their victims and do develop genuine emotional attachments. Extreme lust, self-destructive behavior and co-dependency in both eventually destroy the humans who typically die of suicide, ill nutrition, car crashes or other illnesses related to mental instability. The leanan sidhe will go into a depression, avoiding all social contact only to re-emerge later. Ready to rejoin the dating scene. Nothing is known about this in-between period and leanan do not form nests or colonies amongst themselves. It might be her plotting her next kill, a time for rest and psychological healing of herself, or a period of religious penance.  
  
More than a few rock and roll artists have died in ways that indicate possible leanan sidhe involvement. John Lennon's death by gunshot ended speculation that his love affair with Yoko Ono was magically affected. Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin's links to a leanan sidhe (the same one, in a rare non-monogamous affair) are well documented.  
  
  

  * **Valkyries** ("chooser of the slain" in Old Norse) -   
  
Unusual among the psychopomps (spirits that ferry the dead) the valkyries are capable of making themselves visible to humans who are not dying, eating mortal food and drink and other qualities more associated with living beings than spirts of the afterlife.  
  
They have a more uniform appearance than Jagerin or Veela, with the vast majority being freckled, platinum blonde, blue-eyed and fair-skinned. A small number of valkyrie redheads exist, attributable almost entirely to one Danish example in the 18th century whose legendary sex drive, wanderlust and fondness for alcohol was matched only by the traits of her nine daughters.  
  

  * **Veela** -  
  
All female race of visually human, beautiful beings. Agile and fleet-footed with high endurance. Capable of shifting into a winged form with talons, sharp teeth and in extreme cases, even a beak. Fully at ease with humans and muggles. By far the most integrated of the magical species. They are prodigies at magic relating to elemental energies of air and fire. Their complexion, hair and eye color, and height varies across the globe as does the feathers of the avian forms.  
  
A tendency towards romanticism, marrying and child-bearing means that they strongly prefer contact with large populations which include humans. Because of their absolute need to seek their chosen mate out, whoever they are, they often travel in their teens and twenties, even their early thirties if they survive that long unmated. Because of this drive to love, more part-veela exist than any other non-human race by an order of magnitude.  
  
Politically, they are gathered into close alliances of a few large extended families ("flocks") that operate the veela and faerie institutions in a given region and in many cases possess money and strength comparable to a small nation.  
  
Their numbers and palatability to humans (especially muggles) makes them the port-of-entry to the faerie for humans, muggle and magical alike.



**Beauxbatons vs Hogwarts:**

  * Beauxbatons is younger than Hogwarts, having only become a formal institution in the mid-1450s. Prior to that, Beauxbatons was simply a nearby town where many witches and wizards gathered in groups to teach each other.  
  

  * Beauxbatons is a military academy with strong links to half-blood families in the former nobility of muggle France. This can be seen in their houses, named for types of infantry and cavalry with house emblems that feature sabers, cannons, mounted knights and so on. All students are taught sword fighting, horseback riding, and wizard's dueling without exception. Optionally they may add musketry, sailing, wandless magic, non-magical wilderness survival, and hand-to-hand courses in the upper levels.  
  
As witches and wizards, graduates have no formal army to join and are not obligated to service, as is typical in muggle military academies. The dominance of Beauxbatons in France and continental Europe means that nearly eighty percent of the adult population of wizarding France is a member or formerly was a member of a formal militia. They know how to duel, organize attacks and raids, and have been put through their paces.  
  
One popular alumni activity is Hannibal's Royale, where graduates living in France don Roman military garb and hike south across the Alps to a farm field near Tocino, Italy and pit themselves against those living in Italy and North Africa, who gather in Morocco and march across Spain and the Alps. They meet in Italy and stage a mock battle honoring Hannibal's campaign against Rome. This triannual bacchanal ends with a feast in which 'war elephants' made of enchanted blocks of dark chocolate, milk chocolate and caramel are chased into a pit and slaughtered for the dessert course.  
  

  * Beauxbatons attempts self-governance whenever possible. While this trend has always been present, the push for democratization and student involvement accelerated greatly after the French Revolution and was set in bylaws by he time of Napoleon's rise. Noble heraldry cannot be worn except on family heirlooms and it may only be displayed in artwork, journals and in diaries. An elected student body called merely 'The Assembly' exists and is allowed leeway over issues in the kitchens, dining areas, dormitories and common rooms. This Assembly manages the the social events, including faculty parties, student dances, hosting parents, the notorious Saint Valentine's Feast and even the iconic Summer Festival around the solstice, with a dedicated budget to dispense for each.  
  
Teachers hold final authority in their classrooms but it is a group of both faculty and deputized students who patrol the halls under a pair of faculty advisers, one from their Military Might and Martial Magic department and one from their Defense Against the Dark Arts department. Any disciplinary action can be appealed, whether a student deputy or a teacher gave it and the student-given demerits can be invalidated in the mock court run by seventh year students.  
  
As a result of its deep bench of student clubs to conscript for labor and this large force of monitors to catch miscreants, Beauxbatons has a smaller teaching staff and is reputed to be an easier place to work (if the expensive dress code is not a problem).  
  
A much-beloved anecdote among professors of magical education is that Dumbledore once complained to Madam Maxine about his 'famous student' that had fallen to the dark and she boasted 'he would have been known of and set right by my ladies' which presumably refers to the tradition of cadet self-policing at Beauxbatons, especially among females. Whether Dumbledore referred to Lord Voldemort or not with the remark is unknown, as Britain has produced an embarrassing number of dark wizards in the 19th and 20th centuries an no other schools exist there. It is likely that if a teenage Voldemort had murdered his family and then experimented with Horcruxes as a Beauxbatons student, his rise might have been arrested early. Odds of evading his classmate's suspicion before they could report it to teachers or successfully defending himself at trial of faculty and magic-aware judges are tiny. Early Voldemort's skills were formidable but a single student -- any student -- facing down a student militia's patrol in combat would be less than favorable. The outcome of an open engagement by any small band of criminals against the Ladies' Hunt of Greater France or the men of the Soldiers Sorcerous is a forgone conclusion.  
  

  * It is one of only two academies to accept full-blooded non-human students, the other being an recently founded school in Cuba. Many of her proudest alumna are veela, jagerins, valkyries, baobahn and leanan sidhe women. Legend has it that even several lamia and in a singular case, a succubus have attended. Durmstrang, Ilvermorny, Hogwarts and others have what is called a 'pure at birth' policy stating that all attendees must have been born to two human parents. Remus Lupin, turned a werewolf as a student could still attend Hogwarts as he was human-at-birth. Despite being objectively safer as a classmate than a struggling werewolf, Fleur's mother Apolline could not have attended Hogwarts because she had an all-veela mother.  
  

  * It views the acceptance of non-humans as core to its mission. Despite a relatively small number of faerie students at any one time, Beauxbatons is strictly faerie-compatible. It uses no iron in the building's construction, all door handles and classroom implements are bronze, silver, copper, gold, nickel and pewter or alloys of those. Students are required to register all iron-containing personal possessions and must declare any faerie relatives, blood debts, or encounters upon enrollment so that faculty can be sure that steps have been made to create non-aggression pacts.  
  
All-meat, all-plant and even all-live prey cookbooks are maintained for special diet students. A separate network of hallways exists, windowless and belowground, and all classrooms are on the ground floor and recessed, so they are not dangerous to the health of a creature that must 'go to ground' after sunset, like a vampire or a dwarf. Various student clubs have language in their charters to welcome non-humans. This friendliness to fully inhuman students is also why half-veela and other half and quarter-faerie students are so common at Beauxbatons. It is a compromise school for hybrid human children to get a more "normal" education with human magic users.  
  

  * It maintains a full college and graduate school with a class size of roughly fifty at any time. While a diploma from Beauxbatons or Hogwarts combined with on the job training comprises the basic "university degree" of the magical world, there are of course those who wish for further formal education. Nearly any muggle doctorate can be attained here, provided other degreed witches and wizards exist with the muggle credentials to teach it while adding relevant magical concepts. For example, Fleur's mother graduated with a doctorate in medicine and performed a residency in women's health in Paris. A jagerin student who graduated in 1995 with a PhD in mathematics and practical arthimancy stated in her farewell address that her aim was to be the first member of the Wild Hunt to become a computer programmer.



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the idea of Beauxbatons being able to catch Voldemort as a student before it was too late sounds too good to be true, consider the fact that he was once an orphan with issues and that if the British wizarding world investigated all murders, they might have detected the magical elements to his murder of his family.
> 
> This brings us to my biggest issue with the capital P plot of the whole series. No one pays attention to threats until, conveniently, the protagonist is at a school and it's his problem. Yes, it's fiction, but lots of fiction has children as chosen ones and believable reasons why something is their problem. Voldemort's rise requires a particular kind of stupid. People knew he was bad. People knew he was amassing power. People knew he was doing dark magic (or might be) and if they're raiding Lucius Malfoy's house for dark magic, why aren't they following up on this? No one confronts him for decades while he builds up.
> 
> A cornered, panicked Tom Riddle at school facing a Dumbledore in his prime and a young McGonagall is an entirely different matter than what happens after he's left alone for thirty years to gather power even as more and more muggles (and wizards) are suspiciously killed.
> 
> Potentially game-changing magic is strewn everywhere. In a world where someone can just **figure out** how to make themselves unkillable, maybe the law enforcement needs to be keeping an eye out so they can interrupt them while the potion cooks? Muggle countries track packages to search for drugs. Why don't wizards keep records of bookstores to monitor for people buying books on the sort of thing that would make them into a snake-faced demigod in a silk bathrobe? Freedom of speech does not require near suicidal stupidity on the part of the civilization at large. Various explosives can be cooked on a kitchen stove but chemistry professors don't put the recipes in PowerPoints and certain ingredients are quietly tracked to protect against hoarding and bomb-making. 
> 
> I can't figure out for the life of me how British wizards are this bad at running a magical version of law enforcement, even as racist as they are. Both Grindelwald and Voldemort are products of educational failures (Grindelwald was expelled from Durmstrang) who were then just left alone despite having known tendencies to experiment with dark and thus probably illegal magic. Grindelwald was too dark magic-y for Durmstrang, which has a reputation for dark to the point where Hogwarts students (and staff) think it is a hive of Death Eaters in waiting. They expelled Grindelwald, with cause. For dark magic.
> 
> He was basically a convicted dark magic user who had maimed fellow students. No one seems to have kept tabs. They can break Hagrid's wand on one person's word for keeping a spider (and have no appeals process when he is exonerated?) and they can try Dumbledore's brother for something nasty involving a goat, but apparently that's all that wizard law enforcement can manage.
> 
> That's a bad system more than it is a powerful villain. People you know are dangerous from their school and you're in a world where you know that just **studying things and waving a stick all fancy** can let someone start an army...and no one stops them.
> 
> Sigh.
> 
> I'm writing this utter lack of imagination and preparedness as that not being the norm across all countries. I needed a crossroads, a point when England and France became different. I picked the abolition of the monarchy. French beheaded their king (and deposed Napoleon) where the English seated a new king even after they beheaded one. They did shrink his power to the point that now they have this odd, Corgi herding little old lady whose function in government is ceremonial. Her very presence holds up the leftover elements of England and those trickle down into the culture.
> 
> So I decided that the French wizarding world might have gotten carried away during the French Revolution and come out the other side with a hatred for monarchy and a passion for democracy. Over two centuries, 'anti-nobility' became a rejection of snobbery, whether it be the idea of muggle nobility or blood purity.
> 
> In this retelling, there will be injustice and problems in France but not the same problems as in Britain.

**Author's Note:**

> ##  [Want to see the posh stuff? Want to see future chapters early?](https://rb.gy/b1fjhr)
> 
> ### Like it? Hate it? Have questions? Come holler at me about fanfic!
> 
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